In the arid lands,
Spaces between the spaces,
The interstitial wildernesses of our sojourn,
We wait for consolation.
In the dry heave between the tears,
The not-yet not becoming,
The broken shells where no life blooms,
We wait for consolation.
In the cities of our lost identities,
The howling horror of our maybes,
The perhaps that blows away,
We wait for consolation.
Shall we recognise its face?
Our prayers are more than dust upon the air
Only because you hold them.
Our hopes are more than candle flames gone out
Only because you hold them.
Our faith has wings to rise above the night
Only because you hold it.
We see your promise and it is enough
Because you are ‘I am’.
No comments:
Post a Comment