On The Write Path

Battle of Angels [JI#7]

For: "Journalistic Intentions" 

Battle of Angels

BATTLE OF ANGELS

the outside world fades —
old men bow to the Source
of All Being

Mother Teresa ascends in the southeast transept of the blazing white Albanian Catholic cathedral. In Prishtina, she stands stiff along the mall that bears her name. An outline in the plaza marks where she was raised in Skopje. Three nations embrace her, call her their own. Born in comfort, Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu chose to be poor. She enriched all she touched.

wrinkles frame
tired eyes — some only see
needs of the poor

Mosaic designs soar above us, grow wings as if our prayers have wings. This is the House of Peace. All are welcome who humbly enter here. An old man speaks to me as I leave the mosque in Gjakova, wants me to know what the old man at the mosque in Sarajevo wanted me to know. We survived the guns, the bombs, the stabled horses and fires. Peace douses the flames of war.

the outside world fades —
old men bow to the Source
of All Being

Glass sags under the weight of centuries as the wooden roof soars from staves of trees older still. For 8 centuries this shelter has greeted the pious praying for a healthy child, has heard the cry of when they were born and the weeping when they were buried. Surrounded by old stones covering the bones like roofs to keep out the rain and snow, this place of adoration gazes upon them though aged panes that waver in the sun.

glass wavers —
sunlight enters to grace
both saint and sinner

Incense chokes the air as thousands gather to greet the new year hoping it will be as good as or better than the one they just survived. Each nook and cranny is dedicated to a different guardian some consider to be a god. All smoke rises to a higher place they assure us. Above we are One. In the Longshan Temple no one cares what you call Him.

chants soar while paper
burns — people bow with lips
of hope and prayer

© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.367] (14.mars.2021)