The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers was originally an oral tradition, but at some point in the 5th century these sayings get written down. We cannot know what slipped into them during the process of transcription. The pen draws up its own truth.
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Legend says all crosses came to burn and watch the grieving land. How it fled into harmless solace.
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Everything here has been balanced by the ripe muscle of the wind. Noon ribs the long waves, licking them into a dazzling emptiness. These waves become grisly under the chalked sun and glaze of stars.
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Here, tongues are bells, flesh the timid hand and all this to repeal a slipped faith.
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Abolish polluted change. Look to wisdom, an alcohol of wonder. Their summer: hungry to know. End of.
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Is music a remnant of the object. Give soft hallelujahs and ride by and die. Is music a keeper beyond seduction, as though borne by cameras, not nature. In the end, the head is still sandy.
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Outside the firm mind, a blood-red native cup. Grim, weary.
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What tongue can name God and a pinstripe knee. What tongue can ordain the sanded hillside and recognise the bright stone as friendship.
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If the rock is lifeless, how is it that men stumble? Their recognition is of their missing joys. The door. Emerging when another closes.
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What ear can hear the work of dew, the dawn lake. What ear can hear the holy whip of conversion, or exchange.
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Sky-moan, or wind, or bird-path, or sandstorm, or take a long, hard breath now.
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What eye can bear the heavy East. The burnt land. Seeking to strengthen. What eye can resolve the granulated sentence.
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