A strange kind of wish we have here,
to grasp at a moment’s picture
of a tomtit, a cloud, or a deer,
then flick through our pages even quicker.
My only begotten, are you
a calfskin scroll, worn through,
or writing scratched on clay
that’s starting to crumble away?
But maybe at least a page,
a verse or a word will be saved
among the ash and dry dust.
From the skies, fire falls in waves,
mute, and talking in tongues.
Not knowing its worth,
the Creator sets fire
to His earth
so often you can’t keep up.
He turns our pages in the wind.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t tire.
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