The king breaks through a fence
To create his own path. He breaks down Newton’s wall And scribbles a new math. The ruins are restored by A man who knows ruins, (he was born That way) and the trick to pick A rose is to avoid the thorn. Sometimes everything crashes Until the smoke billows out To the road, until the throat Is choked and cannot shout, But the white-faced man Will climb out of the crevasse, Everyone who sought beauty On the crashed mountain pass, Who wanted more than What they knew they wanted, who Died in their sleep and frustration, “Gather my lovers to Me, who were, in the end, Faithful.” Once, they had leaped And died, now they stride Where until now we have creeped, And even if, the second time, We weren’t high enough, the third Time, the people of the aleph, The limbs that had been injured, The sapling that was pulled out Of the ground will be replanted, The homes will spread upon the hills, Permission will be granted To swear in the living name Of the just and the fair, and Those who had been as far As Stanford, in quicksand, Will build a stone home. Even They will be guides and singers States the master beyond math Whose every speech lingers.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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