PARADISE AND PRAYER
The answer to a prayer is invisible. It occurs in unexpected ways. And yet you can feel its courage lifting in the heart, you can climb the way it opens up for you as you might climb a stair, and can stand in wonder before its perfect art. Is there anyone who hasn’t waited down below, before any courage was felt, before any stair appeared, and whose faith dwindled to a tiny spark? Then it seemed as if the world had nothing left to show, all lights were extinguished, and you were left alone with your thoughts in the dark.
Time and time again the thought arose that the world is old and has nothing in it that can lift me up. The hand I held out is empty and the cup I drank from is cold. Yet in that same hand, left limply folded, the prayer lies hidden, and there is hope in the half-forgotten cup. And something comes back from an old remembered land, from paradise, to lift me up.
As a drop of dew is all that’s left of night, what remains of me is distilled prayer. The sun then transforms the dew-drop into light. Paradise, which in its essence is still in me, fulfills me with its care. Only bones and hours continued of what I carried from the past. Yet something in me, even if I paid no heed to it consciously, must have stopped to pray along the way. Something that remembered what I myself had forgotten – an age of light, the paradise I had been part of long ago.
Stair
I’ve never seen the answer to a prayer,
but felt its courage lifting in my heart
and climbed its way as you would climb a stair
and stood in wonder at its perfect art.
I was the one who waited down below,
whose faith was narrowed to a tiny spark,
who felt the world had nothing more to show
than lights extinguished, thoughts left in the dark.
Paradise
Twenty times a day the thought arises,
the world is old and cannot lift me up,
ways have left me here with no surprises,
empty is my hand and cold the cup.
A prayer lies hidden in the folded hand,
a hope within the half-forgotten cup,
and something from an old, remembered land
comes back from paradise to lift me up.
Long-Gone
This drop of dew is all that’s left of night
and what remains of me is distilled prayer.
The sun transforms the dew-drop into light
and paradise fulfils me with its care.
I’ve carried what I can from the old day
and stopped where only bones and hours went on.
But something in me must have stopped to pray,
remembering an age of light long-gone.
Best wishes, today,
Landar
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