This is what was bequeathed
us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.
No other world
But this one:
Willows and the river
And the factory
With its black smokestacks.
But this one:
Willows and the river
And the factory
With its black smokestacks.
No other shore, only this
bank
On which the living gather.
On which the living gather.
No meaning but what we find
here.
No purpose but what we make.
No purpose but what we make.
That, and the beloved’s
clear instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake.
Turn me into song; sing me awake.
~ Gregory Orr
~
(How Beautiful the
Beloved)
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