This is my pagan rite,
that The God of Mercy hear me;
a poor, wretched, miserable soul,
steeped in the addiction to magic.

O God of Abraham, my Father,
count my sins if You can,
for they are more numerous,
than the sand of the sea,
more numerous than the stars.

For I have set up an idol,
unto You and Your Son;
so that You may cast me down.

Look, O God, on my iniquities, Father,
look upon the torrents of my sins;
who then, if not me, has the right,
to call out unto You and beg mercy.

This is what I ask You, Father,
give me wisdom beyond measure;
that the poetry in my heart go forth.

And blossom and bloom as starlight,
reaching beyond all boundaries, Father.

That word, which is number, and word,
the essence of the soul spoken;
be the stream where many drink.

Frailty, human frailty, be mine,
and ignorance beyond measure;
that in not knowing,
I find in me endless curiosity.

©2026 Maria Morisot