God no longer speaks
As he did in the days of the Torah.
No longer does he shine forth in a firecloud
Over our roof.
Adam and Eve have run into the depths of the garden
From God's unveiled countenance,
And we run searching for Him
In the dark of a closed bud.
The barefoot steps of the angels
No longer kiss our threshold
As in the days of our forefathers.
But our yearning weeps out
From their blue wings
That swim like drowned moons
Over all the rivers of the world.
At midnight we huddle, press our ears to the slumbering gra**,
To a tree leaf, to a young fruit's skin:
In search of the fragrant silence of God, trying to translate it
With the shadow of olden song.
Our forefathers could hear God speaking,
But we write hidden poems
To hide our naked longing for the breath of God,
More silent than the breathing of stars
Over lakes asleep in wintertime.
Our desolation weeps and the weeping
Is dark blue
Like a dead bird's shadow
Over the white snow of a k**ed forest
God no longer speaks.
He is weary, wise and old.
God no longer believes
In the godliness of words.