The white door


I go and come to you,
knock tentatively, wait patiently at your door,
white she shines in front of me.

But it is closed, sealed by you,
the red roses on the bush above her,
appear dry and lifeless in me.

Oh, I should enter the garden behind her,
just take a look around

to watch all the wonders and beauties created by you.

How long, O Lord, I have to wait,
when may I return in and out of your garden,
to enjoy all the scents and fruits,
be removed from all the wrong addictions.

When again do you want to open the door
and may all your children come back to you?


By
Anna Maria Hosta 

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