Dust is
existence without blood,
wrote the poet Francis.
Most likely the same thought
in a different language
spoken by Francis the saint.
As in dust at His feet –
bloodless . . . without spit, too,
without tears, dried up,
crushed, yet breathing, speaking,
doing, thinking – serving the Lord.
Returned to the dust from which
the servant was fashioned
long before the ropes lower him
to his earthly repose; serving the Lord
as a jar of dust holding nothing
of substance – nothing of substance –
only the God-part, the love-essence,
the elusive, ethereal soul.
O child of God, emptiness is completeness
(say the mystics).
Nothing is everything.
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