A LITTLE PRAYER (after “A Little Priest”)

The ovens sigh, the knives confess,
we season sin with gentleness.

Each soul, when carved, reveals a taste—
the butcher’s art, the baker’s waste.

The world’s our larder, stocked with schemes,
its saints are sweeter than they seem;

the sinners, tough—but well-marbled,
faith rendered down, ambition garbled.

O mercy, what a menu night!

The moon a lid, the stars alight—
each heart a roast of mortal heat,
each dream a spice too rare to eat.

So lift the cleaver, kiss the flame,
for hunger never dies of shame;
and whisper, as the bones release,
It isn’t m-rder—only peace.

:: 02.04.2026 ::