Our Monk

For fifty years
the arm has rested
that grasped the pen
once so prolific
but now,
with ink stagnant.
No new thoughts are born
that once tumbled so freely
from gargantuan intellect.
The heart that swelled
so large
to embrace the world
beyond the cloister, beyond the border
beats no more.
And yet,
the truth echoes
down the ages
attracting seeking souls,
drawing them in.
They meet
in recognition that this man
this contradictory,
rebellious spirt,
still speaks
not through dusty tomes
or time aged papers
but through simple truth
of prayer, of love, of God.
The poet, the prophet,
the universal monk.

(Written: 13.VI.18)

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