While the burning fish is tracing his arc near the cypress, beneath the highest blue of all, and the blind boy flies away in the white stone, and the ivory poem of the green cicada beats and reverberates in the elm, let us give honor to the Lord— the black mark of his good hand— who has arranged for silence in all this noise. Honor to the god of distance and of absence, ff the anchor in the sea—the open sea… He frees us from the world—it’s everywhere— he opens roads for us to walk on. With our cup of darkness filled to the brim, with our heart that always knows some hunger, let us give honor to the Lord who created the zero and carved our thought out of the block of faith.