MY RABI

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros (OSF)

My Rabi ,                                                                                  

The man, from whom oozed wisdom

I listened to him in my boredom

‘When you succeed in one achievement,

It crushes the dread of impossibility

Your hunting gets stained in impurity

Beware,’ he said,

‘These achievements are the mills

Which keep you hungry for the unknown.’  

With a tear in my eye,

I rose up high

And I said to him,

‘You may be old and your hair golden

But your ignorance of possessions, isn’t it a shame?

Because your molten wells are rich with humus

And nobody to harvest.’  

I slammed the door, intent not to hear him

But I still heard like a gentle mantle over me

‘You have run out of love.’

Decades later my hair golden grey,

The mantle still heavy

My turn to tell my heirs:  

‘There are certain lacks that are best not met,

They dig deep within and the craving never stops.’

And the young ones laugh and slam the door at me.

I still tell them anyway

‘You have run out of love.’

Their turn too will come,

And someone’s going to slam a door at them.

Isn’t it interesting, how doors let themselves be slammed?

© October 2020