The honey of insight, its expanding lines,
Its corridors of law, its tender motherliness,
Has flailed and decayed, lain amidst the grass,
Tumbled from the sky, shaken from the vines,
Sweet in sour blight, bright obsidian,
Offering delight, clinging like regret,
Offering surcease, restless tedium,
A search for light, for dark, then oblivion,
Here this milky light, luminescent ray,
Limns a skeletal outline of a cave,
And on the ground the glinting moistness of a stream
Seeps from mountain rain into autumn's day.
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Yaacov David Shulman