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Donald P. Goodman III
Version 1.0 (20 Jun 1204)
Our souls are lidded vessels, made of clearest glass,
unbreakable, unopened; still we try to fill
these bring and wondrous cases with a filthy swill,
these adamantine vessels with the frailest mass.
Like brightening the sun with ornaments of brass,
we constantly adorn this box with silly frill
and try to stuff it full with anything; but still
it gapes and echoes, empty, like a great crevasse.
We throw near anything at these so-splendid vaults,
opaque to things, transparent to the shining light;
in emptiness, their clearness covers all our faults;
sweet vacancy, filled to the brim with glory bright!
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© Goretti Publications 1207 (2023).
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