Sometimes pure faith
Cannot find its foundation In the soil of the soul And its rigmarole That lies baked in the flesh In the lines of imagination, In illusion and sight, Deception and night, As though we are fed By the mind’s meditation While the limbs remain Unredeemed and profane. The body and soul Spit vituperation, Destroy and war In hair-clutching furor. At that time, release Beyond recrimination Is faith that contains Rivers and lanes, Whose sky roads receive Purification, Whose soil, whose roots, Whose crawling shoots, Whose visions and yearning, Whose hot imagination Rise, though blind, To brightness of mind, A blazing white fire, A swift cerebration, A thought beyond thought Of knowledge untaught. In slavery, faith Is the reverberation Of God and deed, Of wordless creed.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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