The oats sprout on the Benedictine altar. They grow, wither, and then we take them outside to merge with the grass under the apple trees.
At Easter to sprout oats, promise of new life, animated resurrection, from nothing, sticks, seeds, scratching the apices of vertical, to sow I invite Kokolia's students, climbing after the prelature, to sow, night, midnight altar, tablecloth, tar paper, black soil, in the dark we stumble over the bench, the sinking of the sole is flying through the ellipse of the walls, Santini did not have a T square, it was only an L with a compass, the pads of the fingers, dimples, the grains are drowning, they are already drifting in them, no one utters a sound, the miracle breaks their hips.
In the morning, Ján angry Mančuška will accuse of desecration, misuse, and I do not know-I know: I bother, I try to break the expected, to undo the chord of unimaginable, I am for the other.
Green sprouts are growing, I am watering, green sprouts are faulty, only water is not enough and the sun is little in the chapel.
M. Z., 23.–30. October, 2017, Ústí nad Labem and Libušín