Where cedars bargain breath for snow,
a sage counts gilgulim like stones.
East, mandalas grind marrow-bright,
South, mitzvot turn clay to pyre.
Westward, a meadow trims its seams,
shepherds hum grace to folded hands.
But frost-etched roots still nurse a coal,
some blight once grafted futures slow.
‘Ere hammers mute the lion’s roar,i
yet loam remembers ax and wing.
Choose: carve your rungs from splintered ice,
or kneel where velvet ropes enclave.
We shoulder stone toward stars unshrined,
sweat salts the soil, rekindles fire.
- Technology gives leverage and power to the most intelligent and tool-adept, but weakens the spiritual vitality of all, don’t you think? ↩