inS(h)ofar

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 aint cerebral
The cry of a street child past 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 e thorn
Matters only in world of suprose

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 it 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 our souls.

May the “Pintele Needle” pierce all our layers, mend all our rips, stitch all our tears (both the tearful tears and the torn tears); and may we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life.)