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.
Yaacov David Shulman