Bullock cart
A lame man riding through the dark
in the bed of a bullock cart, a pummeling
with each pothole, road rut;
the destination vague and remote.
No stopping, no turning back. A perfect One
holds the reins, His mere presence
making the journey bearable,
His authority fleshing out
certain ancient stories
of the valiant and persistent.
Meher gave the lepers comfort, not healing.
The cure was there already, in the process of time,
in the death of diseased bodies and the taking
of new ones. Comfort was His
gift.
Nursing my wounds in the dark,
I see clearly now my own eventual cure
somewhere beyond the thumps of time and distance,
assured by the promise and nature of the malady,
as the old cart shudders, rumbles along, winding its way
towards the dawn and those inevitable, far-away gates.
O child of God, Meher says every bump in the road
is a shedding and a shaping of your eventual perfection.
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