What is it like to not pray?
A dove without wings.
A lute without strings.
And a sky without stars.
The midbar is my mouth.
When it opens, there is nothing
But dryness and dull aching.
But there is something forming.
A flood rising in the dark of my lungs.Â
The tide, she whispers:
Ruakh hayyim
The spirit
Moves here.
Quiet and dampened.
But alas,
She lives.
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