I bow down to pray. The whole space of the church appears in my thoughts, the fourteen columns around the altar, the eleven four-petalled flowers on the gallery’s parapet, pictures which tell the story of Jesus, the organ whose right central cross is missing and the furthest one is broken, the Corinthian styled pillars, the nine horizontal rose windows on the ceiling, of which four are bigger and five are smaller, the yellowish glass. In the lobby is a Jesus statue, behind it a mosaic, before it a lotus flower. The lotus blooms. Now I only see this blossom, weeping.

The petals are rotating, the flower of life sets me off, sounds shoot out of my mouth breaking the intimate silence. I stand up from my seat, straighten myself, my eyes still closed, tauten my throat a little, put the tip of my tongue on the back of my palate, find a comfortable tonic and scale the overtones. Inside my head all the prophets welcome me, be it Jesus, Buddha or Mohammed. Seven arches, I sing a major seven arpeggio, eleven flowers, I sing an eleven, then go lower and on the top of my sonorous voice flute a seventh with my oral-cavity-whistle imitating the harmony of the fourteen columns. Sudden change, deep, monk-like voices emerge, resounding through the church which then reverberates the overtones.

We’re doing this continuous answering until the prophets bow and we all give thanks. After the end of my prayer I open my eyes and back out with my hands put together, always turning towards the altar, and, indeed, in the hall before the Jesus statue the lotus flower blossomed.

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