I'm begging you
Are You ___, the One
Who set this in motion,
Made of me a distraction,
Made of my heart a lode
Without tributary, pause,
Have You found this straightaway that plunges and discerns?
There is, I guess in my bareness, as from Your Hands
The ghost of purpose always.
There prevails the hot rock, fluid
On my human earth:
How it has singed away the disguises of Divine Love,
How, too, it has exposed my purposeless,
--And of course I estimate in my small soul,
So scorched clear it All is
And cools here.
I cannot tell the remnants apart.
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