The Person Lives in the Holy Land

The person lives in the Holy Land,
And the Holy Land lives in the person,
Suffused with light from an unknown source,
And if, by God, the world should worsen,

We must, in the twilight, look for that light,
Perhaps in the folds of the frontal lobe,
Finding ourselves on an absolute plain,
Waiting for light to pummel the globe,

To see the land of freedom, to ride
Its highways, decipher the circuitry
Of its stones, to read the earth,
To climb swiftly alongside the sea

Through the foliage, the green scent
Of liberty, of the clouds that appear
Only at this altitude,
Strong, out to the high frontier.