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.