God is the place which we rip open
Again and again, but which heals.
We are severe ones, for we would know,
But he is serene and bestows.
But he does not bring the pure
And sanctified gifts into his world
Unless he, himself immovable,
Obstructs their uncontrolled purpose.
Only a dead man drinks
Of the spring which is heard here by us,
If God silently winks at them, the dead.
To us is given only uproar.
And the lamb requests his little bell,
Out of the greater quietude of his instinct.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet