This dust is Mine

Pilgrim feet in a religious sanctuary

Take off your shoes.
This dust is mine, this knotted web
is  mine, this shadow
is my shape for you, and when
the hot dust scalds your eyes to tears,
who is it weeps with you to soak
your dust to speaking clay?

(Rowan Williams, last stanza of his poem “Augustine” in: The Poems of Rowan Williams; Oxford: Perpetua Press, 2002, 33)

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