Heaven gonna smell like sweet-olive, friend;
gonna have galleries for sitting, breezes for cooling,
singing to joy up the choir of souls
swinging a coming-home dance.
Flowers gonna jump into bouquets of beauty.
Branches gonna clap their leaves
for the God-feel in the air.
Sleep gonna be deep dreams of no more hurt;
no pain but the release of joy sighs
at the taste of salt rivers
flowing into the ocean of arms-open-wide love.