By Pavel Chichikov
You've got a bellyfull, old Son
Father's work is never done
And though become a hairless ape
At least you've taken up their shape
Shapeless there's not much to do
Until our work together's through
For in their world the shapeless are
The unenfleshed who don't go far
But you will be a one like them
Bone and flesh, my apothegm
Tramping up the stony hills
Or in the desert curing ills
Not as medicine but sign
That leads away to what's divine
Sweating down again you'll find
Lakes to walk on, change to wine
But You my Father, how to see?
You're not Nathanael-under-tree
That's a trick too unprofound
Bending time and space around
But You, the splendid torch at night
Refulgent fire, blind my sight
Sun of love, you overwhelm
The contrast of this lower realm
How will I know You in my dread
Or rise in glory from the dead?
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
