It’s
grounded in lev (heart), featured as
forbidden knowledge, an origin of souls.
It’s
honored as tov (good), this realm of
light, to tiptoe the forbidden. This
life
is
feyic, to unlatch spirits, and extract tshuvas
(answers). There’s a satchel—as
cryptic
as letters, shielding pensive eyes. We open for brighter lights, and wince
for
sudden sights, to pamper a booklet of scrolls. Tears fall as sea blue pearls,
trickling
into souls, to rattle the twilight.
We weep the error of filters, to hunger
for
voice, dripping in baptism. We clutch
for threads, through ecstatic chatter,
jotting
frantically. The message reads:
“Either gradual, or abruptly!”
Its
porous joys, for atoms of bliss, to sculpture a raft of salt. Be with seasoning,
guided
through wisdom, to whisper a reservoir.
Souls are clenching love, as
actors
in a play, as bashful as confession.
We ask for art, to feel agaze, to revel
in
love; for agile chi, accompanies spirit, feeding on faith. Such is artistry, to
strike
an ember, ablaze suddenly. We summons
the Rabi, a heart of peals, trekking
through
foggy bliss; where veils are sunless, a misty contour, to unlock a
mixture.
Its dirge and joy, zest and sore, a vault
of pyramids. We atone for segments,
to
feel
for cleansing, to awash our souls; for mind is heavy, a net for shames, to
needle
come
breath. Its vivid warmth, for aching
cries, to live it like rituals.
