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Πνεύμα

by Asher Silvey

Misty fog spills out my mouth;
A ghostly creature from the South
Invades my nose and flees my lips.
It cannot be bound, yet serves the ships.

Who has gathered it in his fists?
Kiss the Son and feel His wrists.
To the Christ, it bends the knee.
Hovering over the face of the Sea—
From dust to flesh—He fills my lungs.
Submerged in flames, bestowing tongues.

The Bride resides in the quarters of Heaven;
The Seraphim reap her from the seven.
My King has ransomed me from death;
In Comfort, I take my final breath.

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