OF all the things that bruise and batter, why then is it love that seems to terrify us most? It wrenches from our grasp the chains that bind us, forces our concession of the truth that we are never who or what we think we are, demands of us the sacrifice of artifice and edifice and tower wall. For crushed beneath the weight of them we’re trapped within ourselves. Love ennobled in the flesh is somehow more than we can bear. And while we buried it behind a stone, it would not leave us be. There is no shroud, no spear, no arrow that can spare our suffering for the good of love. Here, the heart will stretch out toward the rising sun, to find itself or perish long before the work is done. So, let us sing! Sing, you wailing stars, a bruise upon the knee, the reddened eye of grief, the daughters of this city’s mournful moment, here beneath the weight of you, cry out.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Apr 2014 18:42:42 +0000
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