My body is no cathedral,
made for worship,
but more like a cave,
all brown and orange
and black inside,
with a fire burning,
that is making shades dance
on irregular wet walls.
There, for the moment safe,
all in that one room,
occasionally unwanted guests like Pain
and Fear and Hunger
find a place for the night,
together with this waiting mother,
lover, and lonely child
that are a part of me.
Sometimes a warrior is staying,
comforted in the warmth, and fed,
resting and caressed,
but never will he stay for long.
When outside the wild cats crawl,
and wolves are hauling in the snow,
my body shelters all here present,
as if being in a cave.