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.