Now that our souls are dried away.
Now that coriander and honey fall from the sky.
Satisfy us with cucumber and onion.
Let us gorge ourselves with quail.

Here is our strange fire.
Here, our censers filled with smoke.
Burn your anger against us.
Smite us when we fall to lusting.

This cool breeze and the scent of ozone.
This birdsong and wafer falling from heaven.
This simple fare of living bread and living water.
These new words from a new god on a new mountain.

Yon Pantokrator shimmers among the candlesticks.
Transubstantiates on cupolas and over the cup.
Delicacies. And still I hunger. My soul is dried away.
Rough fare tastes best to rough faith.