Zelda
Kiddush
Praise to my grandfather
who, with axes of fire and gold,
was striking on the cliff
with holy words he stroke,
opening a gate in a doleful heart
to the expanse stretching out to the end of existence,
Fools and the elderly, in a poor pit
did he dare to host
and in the midst of mournful resonance
he drank wine
in honor of their shining journey.
He took our hearts out of the darkness
to the crystalline Shabbat
from chaos of despair
to a holiday of amity,
grazing with mountains and forests
with field deer and birds of the Garden of Eden.
And praise to the holy words
who are little sisters
to the soft evening,
And like him, they'll know how to open doors
to the internal me
and its thousands of gates,
until my soul flows
this is the liberated living
who shall intermingle with the flow of the universe.