An old man without children, cursed,
Called to leave out his own country,
So other people may be blessed.
He had a beautiful wife, he loved,
A lust for others,
An apple you may not take again,
A sealed well,
With no streams,
Over the mountain of time,
Only one seed to open the spoken word,
Too powerful for all the host of demons.
So, it stood up in the middle of a wondering life,
A dead man giving life.
Too old to rejoice?
Too tired to run after the child?
Late hope in the flesh,
The fruit in the snow,
Needed for sin,
What you love the most,
A saving change,
An uplifting balance.
It is not a game.
Our turn will come.
What we will put on the altar?

© Alor Deshe