Every soul, great and small,
Stands in its own light,
Neuron upon neuron,
Synapse upon dendrite,
The ones who are small,
Dim and black, muted
And weak, obscure,
And how they are transmuted,
How they are raised
From the rotting straw
By the light of kindness,
On a street dappled in awe,
Because of those whose words
Rise to the heaven of manna,
And dew beads upon leaves
And roots drink from the Susquehanna.
Who says, “My words rise”?
And his bones tremble,
He is not afraid, it is true,
God will not allow him to dissemble.
Stands in its own light,
Neuron upon neuron,
Synapse upon dendrite,
The ones who are small,
Dim and black, muted
And weak, obscure,
And how they are transmuted,
How they are raised
From the rotting straw
By the light of kindness,
On a street dappled in awe,
Because of those whose words
Rise to the heaven of manna,
And dew beads upon leaves
And roots drink from the Susquehanna.
Who says, “My words rise”?
And his bones tremble,
He is not afraid, it is true,
God will not allow him to dissemble.
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