A poem on God in the back of a synagogue; from this afternoon, inspired via Ilana D. Cohen

Listening for the sacred,
Waiting for the sound,
I hide My face—radiant yet concealed.

Sometimes I peep out.
The smell of the sweat of sages long gone still lingers;
They were not saints, but they are My zealots.
What can I say?
Sometimes a Parent talks to some children more often than others.

A fly buzzes—music incoherent.
A traveler passes as a driven leaf,
And I still wait for My next caller.

But My phone usually works differently from the phones of humanity.
They listen to music when waiting for their call,
But I hear music when the call comes through.

Some say that when they’re in My sanctuaries, they don’t hear Me speak,
But, when they’re not here, I’ve really been trying to get through to them all day.

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About jonahrank


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