The Temple

The Body is the Temple
Wherein the Ritual that is Life
Is conducted in Honor of the God
That is Spirit, our True Identity.

But my Temple has been defiled.
The Moneylenders and the Merchants have had their long days
Amassing coffers of coins in their Bazaars. Now the refuse remains,
Empty stalls and silent signs advertising baubles.

Prostitutes still lurk in dark corners.
Everywhere the floor is spotted with the excrement
Of the animals that were sold. A pair of dirty Drunkards is fighting
Over the last bottle of Wine sold in the days of the Bazaar.

And the God of the Temple is angry
That the Body has been defiled.
Spirit has sent its only begotten son, the Mind,
To make the Temple clean.

Mind will sweep the Temple,
Chase away the Prostitutes and Drunkards.
And one day the Temple will be made holy
For Spirit again to dwell therein.

And is your own Temple clean?
Perhaps your Mind has cleared the waste.
Perhaps some offal yet remains,
Or a Thief dwelling in hiding.

But if indeed your Temple
Is made clean and holy
And the great Ritual is conducted
All the days and nights in the Hallowed Hall,
Where then has your God gone?

By the light of the stars
My God meets your God,
And together they walk,
Past the sleeping Thieves and Drunkards,
Beyond the Temples,
In the grove beneath the hills.