No time for talk

Baraka

For the muscle that pulled the oar,
for the hand that wrung the cloth.
For the eye that scanned the river,
for the night that took the moth.
For the mother who bore the child,
for the father who hunted for home.
For the daughter who learned patience,
for the son who yearned to roam.
For the youth that squandered hours,
for the sage who breathes in slow.
For the mysteries that so remain,
for the things we think we know.

Baraka
Baraka
No time for talk
Baraka.



For the girl who washed her body,
for the thief who lost his gold.
For the face that never furrowed,
For the moon that passed in cold.
For the dead along the banks,
for the scatter petaled water.
For the keepers of long kisses,
for the lamb reprieved from slaughter.
For the reasons never uttered,
for the mornings never held.
For the glaciers slowly slipping,
for the trees that stand unfelled.

Baraka
Baraka
No time for talk
Baraka.



For the smoke that takes the flesh,
for the fire that cleans and blesses.
For the love that holds the family,
for the darning of new dresses.
For the stairs that rise to greet us,
for the dungeon’s deep despair.
For the mountain made of cell bars,
for the snow and sullen air.
For the Earth that hurtles sunward,
for the sea that floods to ebb.
For the delicate decisions,
for the dew-borne spider’s web.

Baraka
Baraka
No time for talk
Baraka.

Joseph Gallo
January 7, 2007