Tree of Knowledge

They bow and touch
lips to stone.
Salty soup leaking steam
like smoke from an altar
in the gold star driven nights
over the glowing flames
of an old Russian Monastery.
Backs bent from endless work
like plants toward life
giving light.

 

A cold wind
blows to prepare the soup
for the tongue. Rippled
monks bend in unison
under the breath of God.
Their lips are silent -
always in silence
because you cannot talk
with your lips against
the stone.
They give their voices to God.

 

During the day they prepare
the bread they eat at night.
A waterfall of falling grains
ground and broken for a reason.
Men in brown turning the wheel
while singing praise.
Drown the bread in cooling
soup and pop those rain soaked
clouds into mouths worn
from a day of singing and smiling.

They give their voices to God.

 

Days of singing and working
are useless at the altar
when they bend to meet the ground.

Silence is the only proper
response to awe.
Silence is the only thing
you can do
with lips pressed
against all of God's creation.
They give their voices to God.

 

Press her against you,
so she can bend too.
There is a world that kisses
you back my monks.
He created her from the same
ground grains as you.
She bends in the breeze.
She blows on her soup
and on your ear.
She sings, and prays
all day long until night falls
so she can press her lips
against a stone
in silence.
It is not good,
it is not good,
for man to be alone.

 

So give to her,
give her your voice
and she'll give it back.
From this dialogue of creation,
the harmony of silence,
comes true wisdom -
the only thing He wants for us,
the rest is violence.

Reviews

[darkgurl]

I think in a way this is sad as well as hopeful. I enjoyed reading this. This is a very well written write.