Piety is not the dip of the head in prayer,
reciting of holy words, or gifts of wealth.
It is not the burden of knick knacks on the shelf
that holds your shrine, or the sweetening of air
from costly incense. No, it is the breath
taken in silence, the aching gasp of pain
that shakes you, the shivering fall of rain
reminding you no mortal can cure death.
Piety is the mindful, straining heart
that rarely forgets the bounty it is given,
that never regrets the times that it’s been riven
to open it to the Powers’ glorious arts.
Piety breaks the heart that loves it most
Again and again, till it mends, a ready host.