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The Burning Door

A philosophical look at an ending and a new beginning. Reconciliation and a reckoning with a couple of religions.


There was a fight and then a fire
Flames are burning down my door
Arms fly and I'm punched.
Do I breathe and and run?
Do I feel my baby kicking?
The fires did not concern me
For I'd been walking on the dust of Saints
I'd been tried by demons
And I walked on pointed crystal shards
The red flowers are pouring from me
Like thorns which strangely feel like
Petals and they too begin to bleed
I'm singing praises to the unknown
As if the baby had been born
And to all who went before
The men picked up their weapons
They had much work to do
Clarifications and deals worked out
In the position of men.

Oh Mother of believers
Whose voice is now silent
You, who were taken away
From the dispute and chaos
Hamza of the Dearest Child
I now know why you never had a face
A brilliance covered by the White and Yellow
Rays, you who never needed veiling
Who fell at the feet of the confused
Who would be named as The First?
Difficult to solve with an uninvolved G~d

It came to pass that these men
Would receive position and glory, but
Today, it is you at whose feet I fall
and to the unborn child

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