I have roamed the halls of hope
And sauntered under sunny skies.
I’ve marveled at the hands of statues
And drank from ancient fountains.
I’ve tasted the sun captured inside dried fruit
And stained my lips with homemade wine
Before sweetly falling asleep in the dark.
In quiet courtyards where nuns have prayed
I’ve ruminated in silence.
I feel that God is still listening, his ear pressed against a wall,
For the voices of our souls are meek,
But in this place of impossible volume
Prayers and sighs and little voices
Are made to sparkle like opals.
Lives blessed with poetry such as mine,
Who naturally dwindle in melancholy,
And appear to be intimate with the divine
Are purposed to bring wisdom to folly.
Such is the kingdom of the illumined,
Those the backhand of God has made sacred and doomed.
Touched
