I am not a preacher

I am not a preacher, I hate the preachers and everyone who stands between me and me experience. I hate clergy and priests of temples, trade brokers between God and humans.
What I am but a maker, aspiring to be an artist, made from and dissolved the world gold. I try to make a balance between what should and what should not. Between, good and evil, angels and demons, heaven and fire. Between the beads of sweat on the forehead of a woman to cook for her family and rose water on the forehead of a princess, among the peasants rough hands and princes and soft hands.
Between the thief and the sheriff, the lady and the maid, the bitch and the chaste. The prostitute has a heart of gold.
I try to prevent evil from winning, to preserve what is left of humanity in human beings, to hold fire with my hand to light the road, to flesh my flesh between Cain and Abel, lest the blood be shed. I extend my body to a bridge; it crosses the path of normal humanity to escape the devastation that lengthens their spirit.
I am only a Maestro, I try, organizing Okstra from, workers and machines
Dog barking, bird chirping, frog shrieking, crows humming, wolves wailing, and sheep singing harmoniously between the desert and forests, the smell of camphor, paddy and dirt.
I give my condolences to the war dead, for their blood has sprouted roses
And I apologize to the trees, for it has become tables and chairs.
Weave a bright white dream between this dirt.