Voices deep and urgent, confident and certain.
They whispered their many songs in my ear,
The way things are, the way things have to be.
Dancing's done, and I fell to my old mat,
Exhausted and anxious, the push and pull
Of the many voices, the stories I learned
As a child and still trust with my soul.
Deep sleep and the cool, dark Nazareth night.
Something like a dream, but maybe a lonely boy
Playing his oud and daring the sun to rise.
Something like an angel, but maybe lovers
Making language together when language fails.
Through the night, in its hours and sweet darkness,
I know nothing of what is right and what is wrong.
The music of the hours plays upon my troubled heart,
And my conscience rests in the rising and falling of breath.
I wait now, in the first light of morning, for dreams
To be interpreted and angels to step out of shadows.
But I suspect that none of this is possible:
Maybe I must watch for the Ancient Face
In the sun's light on cracked walls
And listen for the Holy Word in the rattling
Of dishes in the basins next door.
Maybe a new thing is done today.
And maybe I must be that new thing.
