While the flight attendant,
having loaded the meal cart,
is monotonously, monotonously pitching,

the Christian God
steers
every
streetcar,
prescribes
every
Christian
(that applies to non-Christians alike),

so that one is pressed down with a mound of hardships,
while another is blessed and basks in prescriptions,
аминь /ah-MEEN/.

Meanwhile, children and all clear of dross,
enter heaven bypassing the thorns,
and Peter, the staunchest of Capricorns,
beckons them in.

While I'm being skeptical
of the attendant's offerings,
other passengers engrossed in the drama,

God, as He is,  
palms off beings to the workings of karma,
albeit also—****!—asymmetrical...

There's a gap, oh yeah, there's a gap
between you             and              me.
There's a bridge, oh yeah, there's a bridge
between me and you. Sounds like rap.
So far, in what I've said there's nothing sinuous
'cause I'm using very simple language,
not some future perfect progressive,
nor some future perfect continuous.

This gap, this nasty, nasty gap
between you             and             me,
is just the same that cuts off you
from You and me—from Me. Ah, snap!
But here's the deal: while inhibiting
your reptilian brain, you want to clean
your human brain of all the crap,
and if God wills,
you reach a kind of present infinitive.

It is common knowledge in village Woop-Woop:  
Gnyaneshwar penned "Gnyaneshwari" in one fell swoop,
but later on, after drinking some coconut juice,
he jetted off into mahasamadhi* —whooz!

As a tractor operator from the very place  
equated mahasamadhi to returning—with grace—
one's worn-out ticket to Heavenly Lord,
his face was gilded by last twilight rays.

Mid-supper, the milkmaids from the very hickst  
included "Gnyaneshwari" into Brodsky's List,  
though Brodsky didn't stop his resting in peace,
for he'd grown tired of exhorting lay-deez,

provided that their choice wasn't that bad.
Gnyaneshwar had penned "Gnyaneshwari,"—poor lad!
He had a hard time bringing it home to folks
who had a penchant for not connecting the dots.      

About the said Gnyaneshwar—if only he knew
that in less than a millennium, a random dude
would quote "Gnyaneshwari" in one fell sway—
otherwise, he'd have surely whispered: "I stay."

*mahasamadhi can be viewed as a non-violent suicide

In a restaurant
he was studying the menu:

~ Raw emotion with blood
~ Medium-rare emotion
~ Stir-fried emotion
~ Deep-fried emotion

Emotions, refined with thought,
had to be preordered
years in advance

in a separate annex.

Thank God,
men are not the sole vessels
of Masculinity.

Thank Goddess,
women are not the sole vases
of Femininity.

Thank Christ,
children are not the sole embassadors
of the Eternal Child.

Thus, creation can be reinstated
by the Trinity.

2021

~ Daniil Andreev

The predawn breeze caresses eternally sacred stones.
The muezzin raises his hands, ready to chant the adhan
over somber Galilee, where time quietly flows
through Cana's and Bethlehem's ashes. He calls: "Allah-il-Allah".

Like a rose mirage, Damascus groves and temples
will shimmer. Chador-clad women bead gems, never in rush.
The breeze blows now and then, and waves gently bring their favors;
the summoning trumpets of Angel, Lion, and Eagle are hushed.

Yet, fishing nets remain wistful, just as when the Lamb was slain;
the Crusaders' coffins slumber, steeped in cedar and myrrh.
And crowds of motley supplicants time and time again
will scurry to His Sepulcher from different ends of the earth.