The Mystery can’t be spoken say the Masters,
but it is (apparently) embodied by the Living Word
Who may or may not choose to converse
beyond the pronouncements of His own Presence.
Speaking of the Mystery, I always come to the point
where I don’t know the definitions of the words I use,
like having learned a foreign language by rote.
But I’m told it’s my
language, an exile raised
where the duality of words and meanings
are too limited and primitive to explain
or contain the Mystery of mysteries;
thus, a stranger am I, on a foreign shore
praying to become dumbstruck forever
by a mere whisper of the original Word.
O child of God, incessantly the wordsmith
points out the essential futility of speech.
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