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Converting Philomel


How can it turn to praise?

Not the lamenting, or weeping,

Or anger, or elation, or any of that;

But the dead dullness

That blankets my heart, I’d say,

If “blanket” were not too active a word?

How?  Mourning can turn to joy,

Sorrow to laugher,

But death breeds death,



A seed must die

To be reborn,

But some die otherwise

Ground to dust.


Shall the dust praise You?


Once, God wrote with his finger in the dust,

And surely this is a start?

I never heard what he wrote

But they say it was enough

To melt the stones

In raging hands and hearts,

And make these rocks cry out:



Others are used for noble tasks

Beyond such common use;

But perhaps it is not nothing

To be

A tablet

Etched by the hand of God,

Then scattered, dust and ash,

On the listing wind?