Thursday, April 1, 2010
What bread is this that does not rise?
We can not sleep - redemption flies;
so gather what you can and run
and let it bake beneath the sun.
What is this herb of bitterness?
The flavor of our hopelessness;
the silence on a servant’s tongue,
his lamentations left unsung.
What stem drinks from a pool of tears?
You, beloved - your frontiers
spread out like a scarlet bud
from all our fathers’ bones and blood.
What is this pillow, soft and deep?
The chains we lost; the peace we keep.
The freedom where we find our rest
in fortress, field or wilderness.
It is at once our history,
our present and our prophecy;
tonight’s what changes everything
as we pass over,
Posted by joaquin carvel at 8:38 AM