You used to flog me daily, and tried to reeducate me only because your ancestors had stolen authority over the broken bodies of mine, in your days of abundance when I was slender.
Today, I have become as an over-flowing fountain in the desert, and a cool breeze that blows everywhere and refreshes all that it touches.
But by night I become a stony well in a twisted forest, and the air grows cold and still. The birds become ravenous vultures, waiting for your death, and all that can be seen is the New Moon.
I’m sorrowful that I can’t wither the forest with my glance, and burn it to cinders, or knock-over mountains with my closed-fist, for then I could give you what you want.
A thousand dreams have flown from your hand into mine, and a dream is but an echo of the world that was.
For the Son of man saves whom He chooses, then rests and it is enough to be the same as your Master.
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Copyright 2022 Jeffrey Merk
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