I want to talk to you but I can't
houses of the world, why are you made of stone,
why doesn't creation rise like unleavened bread
feeling the breath of the creator in the heart's beat?
Open the windows for the sun to enter
tearing down the fences built by men
so that the simple, flower-garbed hope
may rise to the top, a sign of God.
I want to sing of you, flowers of the earth
as I plunge my hand in the past of the race
through heaps of fallen dead leaves
to the stem that raises its head high.
The head that will be reaped at some moment
in the heartiest satisfaction of God —
reading it we are able to die
serene in our intimacy with another life.
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