I confess.
I, son of David,
Am not deep in knowing.
Or slight in anger.
For mine is a body of fools.
A mind that is neither world wise nor heaven sent.
And a heart that cannot and will not disguise its rage.
Torah’s ink has seeped through my fingers
Staining my bones with the soils of memory and pain.
I cannot form words or letters.
I can only fall further until pitch-black becomes me.
Permit my pen to command the ink
To tell the truth
To transmit the story
To temper that which now flows through me.
And with your steady hand can finally be brought onto the parchment and into the light.
