Psalm 158

 

If I’m a tree planted by streams, why
is my tongue dry, my roots unquenched?

Once, I had woodpecker wings,
travelled through oak forests. Now,

when I open my eyes, sun mocks me.
I search the cracked ground like a weed.

I’m thrashed from all that was you
and your eye, Lord. Your rooster comb

smile, your wool, the rose petals
under your tongue.

I have journeyed far. No acacias
in sight. And where is my fruit?

 

 

 

 

 

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