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If holiness were a destination,
The faithful would grow wings.

In Baku, there is an altar
to Ahura Mazda, where fire

licks the ground like
a lover's tongue parts lips.

We leave an offering;
wine made from honey,

and a gourd of goat curd.
From the time of Alexander

they have returned the dead
to the mouth of the mountain.

Zarathustra divides the righteous,
separating joint from marrow,

I want to make a hollow
in your thigh and live there.

A hundred and one names for God.
Tonight, we speak them all.

Bump

Terrific piece. The images are imaginative and the closing just right.

Been working on it a few weeks. I'm out of ideas

You done good! You’re on a roll...more than one poem deserving of a nom, and it’s still early ... keep up the stellar work

Thank you

I think the poem is finished.

Thanks Siva