Clothed she is
in coalmine black
The son has
looked upon her
Those people not
her people hate her:
From the
reflection of their inner face they flee
They dig and
delve, they seek and search
But all the time
there in their looking-glass book
Garnered she is
in pillars of smoke
Perfumed with
myrrh and frankincense
From the clefts of
the rock the voice of the dove
But being paved with pain they couldn’t bear it and fled
They dig and
delve, they seek and search
Yet all the time
there in their looking-glass book
Immersed she is
in the songs of birds
In the secret
places of the stairs she lives
With all flowers
of the appearing the flight of the dove
But being lined with pain they couldn’t bear it and fled . . .
Ever learning
they never learn: ever seeking they never find
Yet it is all the time
there, in their seeing of their inner face
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