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Your father says:
In the darkest dark,
The spirit of light comes;
Be of good courage.
Would if the Spirit would come
like sunshine, dis-spelling the darkness
pain of lost left lingering last night;
grief, seeking refuge in the test of faith.
What would—save ringing ears—be
moments of silence, is pierced by
the tic-tocks of the clock: ancient echoes
of the passing of time. Time, that entity
that is past, present and future in the same
instance. Yet, languished moments tarry.
That the rancor of this Janus love-hate
exhibition could exist, is beyond
the painful stretch of the limitation
of this injured mind. How—pray tell—
can love’s creation be hated by its creator?
Strange, to hang on is to drown; to let go
is to live—time the healer; forgiveness,
a metamorphic process whose cocoon hangs
in balance with the nature of life’s longing love.
Water breaks; cocoons burst—both give birth
through letting go; and life moves on. Life, never
forgetting but always forgiving: impregnating joy.
‘Vengeance is mine’, said the Lord God. Mine.
We need but understand this response to hate—
Wisdom of expanding love and its own restraints.
Know that in love, does the Spirit comes: Go and wait.
