All night waiting, in an empty house
under dry electric moons, they cast
no shadow, a man striding impatiently
sucking a dry pipe, waiting
an empty sacrificial vessel waiting
without patience to be filled with God.
He said,
– There was a scratching at my door
the noise of some one fingering the latch
once, but I opened and only found the night
empty of sound, empty
The images of drouth
in a parched land growing, acacias in the sand
with thorns and thornlike leaves that cast no shadow,
dry leaves silently moving in the sun.
A wall rose there, of hewn enormous stones
laid without mortar and a gateway, barred
and skies closed in.
But you shall hear the thunder
of bursting walls, the gates of night swing wide,
and journeys will be set toward the thunder.
Your path shall be the empty streets of air.
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