Holy

Where we want we want still
The feet have beaten a track
Across the steep hill
To a shrine in a shack
Where a deity once was
No one can pray to emptiness
Someone said, whatever the cause
The mind cannot hold formlessness
To worship air is to worship what is not
What we cannot see, we cannot be
Let there be no image brought
The old man said, to trap a sea
When we mark something sacred,
The hierarchy of holiness is born
The priest pits love against hatred
Man against god, flower against thorn
What we worship cannot set us free
If we are not moved by tears or agony
Where we want we want still
What we cannot own, we still kill.