The light itself, the way
It rises from the Ground Of Everything, isn’t made, Doesn’t make, whereas we are bound In knots of thoughts. To talk Of cause and effect in The—eh?—beyond our thoughts Is a no-plane in a tailspin. But once we have established Our base upon the bight, We see mirrored in the glass The blue waves, the scudded white, And we indeed rise to where Everything is hidden, has a glow From a light that has no end Reflected on us in the tender snow.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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