Red Bread

I look for sweets in his pockets
and find nails.
My mother bandages the wounds in his palms
(cuts of the soul),
when hammer blows
land on my heart
and crumbs of red bread
lead me to the scaffoldings of buildings

The father rises
every day
to raise houses (from master plans)
the daughter rises
hungry for sweet days
and the Holy Spirit rises
to scatter the bitter herbs
on the way to the Paradise
of bread.

Fear of transparent blue skies builds my father
blue rituals destroy me
in the fifth dimension
my father secrets himself with the Holy Spirit,
and I chew the glass in the windows of our house
and prepare the days
for wanderings that will crack me in two
to an ocean of belief
and a lake of suspicion.

Wave after wave
cut a channel between us
through which I hatch though the opacity of my heart
and go towards his heart
and he abandons his wooden beams
and finds my heart
My father teaches me building rituals
I teach him rituals of destruction.

RED BREAD