There’s a pile lying in the gutter,
A falling breeze watches it shutter,
A pigeon’s beak wrinkles at its stink,
Nearby leaves beginning to mutter,
The tired sun now in a prolonged wink,
Suited bodies pass by and away,
From backstage to the comedic play,
The no-thing still lies there all alone,
The muttering leaves turning to gray,
The suited (for what?) flesh turns to stone.
What’s that guttural (de)form so soiled?
It’s a man whose silver plan was foiled,
Its enthusiasm now street curbed,
Its past thoughts now not even recoiled,
Just wishing to (un)rest (un)assured,
It has fallen insofar away,
It’s preyed upon yet it cannot pray,
It knows not letters never mind words,
(Even kookarikoo it can’t say),
The shepherd impastured by the herds.
Wait what’s that? Like a vocal needle,
Piercing those strong and even feeble,
Mending the rips stitching the tears,
Think all you want! It isn’t cerebral,
The cry of a street child beyond his years.
Is it the tear that inspires the horn,
Is it the hear that inspires the torn,
Is it the sore that inspires the rose,
Is it the throne that inspires the thorn,
It matters in the world of suppose.
Ye you can be deep down insofar,
As to wish you could develop scar,
But even from gutter you see sky,
And remember the lower you are,
With a sound the higher you will fly.
(All of as have our own personal gutter – some gutsy, some gutless – but no matter where or what our gutter may be, no matter how deep or how shallow, the sound of the Shofar can pull us out of the gutter and onto the sidewalk – out of the depths of our bodies and into the depths of heaven.
May the inner spiritual spark pierce all our layers, mend all our rips, stitch all our tears, and may we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life.)