If we are stunned by a conception
So large that the entire Universe cannot fit inside, Let our heart not crackle with fire. If shafts of light blur our sight, So that the colors are stained And dim, out-of-focus threads Of flame hover before us, veined, That is the start of the weaving Of clear lights, of lines Rich with life, strong Boulders, rain-dropping pines. With that, we stride with vigor, and We find ourselves amidst green Shadows of trees, we go up A mountain to where a keen Wind skirts the edge between Being and no being, we come To a place space ceases to matter, The patter of numbers creates no sum, There is delight, the world Is Rembrandt and van Gogh, The mansion doors swing open, Every space is emptied of imbroglio. The strength of our song will rise, The dew hanging in the shrubs Will whisper, we will hear secrets, The formulas of heaven and cubs’ Mewls, and palisades that zigzag On the cliffs, the river courses And it surges, we watch it on the bridge, It rushes with the strength of horses.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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