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You who source yourself:
We are your faithful ones,
give us what our hearts desire.
At least give us a break.
Don’t snare
our overburdened souls
in your all-consuming fire.
We lose interest in living.
I can’t bear it any longer, the
bitter separation, the brokenness.
Look: I’m weary, nearly delirious
with despair. I tell you,
my soul needs relief.
You whose praises we sing, stop
playing the tyrant. Slice through
these chains, free us. Save us
as you saved Joseph from the well.
What good are we as slaves?
My tears, of course, no longer flow.
The fountain that has fed them
has run dry. Give me peace.
After all, what am I? Only
a handful of wayward dust.
But, even so, flowers of hope
bloom in my desire-garden.
Master of transformation, you
call tulips to rise up and burn
like torches.
