A Poem from the Book:
“Of Birds and Men”
In his vision
The whole universe
Is a blank canvas;
And his soul flows
Into his fingers.
In his ecstasy,
He passionately mixes
Simple, blind pigments,
And with an artless brush
He creates again
The paradise he has lost.
In his divine art
The trees and flowers
In their beauty and charm
Rise above the work
Of the dumb Nature,
For they grow and bloom
Out of his dreams.
In exile on Earth,
By taking precedence
Over God’s creation
Perhaps he wants to forget
The Garden of Eden.
Yet, sometimes, when he looks
At a white lily,
Or a stately oak,
He feels he is lost
And wants to cry.
To hear the melodies
Of his thoughts and dreams,
He creates his own
Graceful songbirds
With wood and metal;
And when they sing,
God listens in wonder,
And all the angels
Go into rapture,
And lose their innocence.
Yet, sometimes, when he hears
The simple song
Of a willow warbler,
Or a blue tit,
He feels he is lost
And wants to cry.
Sitting in silence,
And sunk in sorrow,
He has forgotten
His own image.
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