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To What End My Own Glory

to what glory my life
it has not revealed itself
to my mind
or that of my friends;
is the wine only sour?
but in the eyes of my children
the light i see;
the final source of nourishment
as i discard what once i sought;
the pride of the ego;
raised not, textured
as a relief attached to a stone,
the sculptor abandoned his work
leaving his implements at my feet;
to what end do I pick them up,
for it is only my hands that i know
there are no apostles
no cross by my blasphemy
no, only anonymity
as a father must be if he loves
his children and their life
for what is left to be
but a selfless guide
an example, however difficult
for if they cannot believe in me first
they will turn to God only in desperation
and not in grateful tranquility
where blessings take root in the heart
and bitterness can only perish
buried by the strong hands of love

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