In this drought all has died except our crop of griefs;

And it flourishes, each day putting on new leaves.


These leaves are not green, they are bright tongues of fire

That glorify the Name of our heart's desire.


In the acceptance of loss is security:

In the perfection of this is purity.


It is no easy matter for a man to become a child....

One must be a hero not to fight back when reviled.


So small the feet, so long the road to travel;

So weak the fingers, so tight the knots to unravel.


So short the arm to pluck the high sweet fruit;

So weak the purpose even though resolute.


No wonder our crop of griefs flourishes day by day,

And we wonder whether we are even on the way.




From ‘In Dust I Sing’. The title is mine.

Copyright: Avatar’s Abode Trust, Woombye Queensland.

All rights reserved.

Published in the USA by THE BEGUINE LIBRARY

Berkeley, California 94701