I searched for the singers and for prophets
who wait by the ladder to heaven,
see signs of the mysterious end,
sing songs beyond our comprehension.
And I found people who were restless, orphaned, poor,
drunk, despairing, useless,
lost whichever way they went,
homeless, naked, lacking bread.
There are no prophecies. Only life
continuously acts as prophet.
The end approaches, days grow shorter.
You took a servant's form. Hosanna.
Mother Maria Skobtsva
5 comments:
Oh, Mother Maria! This poem makes me adore her even more. Your poem choices, Beth, are so great at slicing through the superfluous and getting straight to the heart of things. I love you, need you, for that.
Thank you for your kind words, I actually had written three paragraphs of biographical information and due to some error on my part deleted everything but the poem this morning. Oh well. Maybe Mother Maria wanted the post this way. Perhaps another day to write about her.
beautiful Beth!
How beautiful, and so honest a poem this is. Thank you for sharing!
More crying! I read Molly's poem and cried, and now yours. So many things are weighing so heavily right now, these poems are cathartic and true and good.
I hope your day improved, Beth, after you commented on my end.
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