by ANNE MORROW LINDBERGH
THERE is a core of suffering that the mind
Can never penetrate or even find;
A stone that clogs the stream of my delight,
Hidden beneath the surface out of sight,
Below the flow of words it lies concealed.
It blocks my passage and it will not yield
To hammer blows of will, and still resists
The surgeon’s scalpel of analysis.
Too hard for tears and too opaque for light,
Bright shafts of prayer splinter against its might.
Beauty cannot disguise nor music melt
A pain undiagnosable but felt.
No sleep dissolves that stony stalagmite.
Mounting within the unconscious caves of night.
No solvent left but love. Whose love? My own?
And is one asked to love the harsh unknown?
I am no Francis who could kiss the lip
Of alien leper. Caught within the grip
Of world un-faith, I cannot even pray,
And must I love? Is there no other way?
Suffering without name or tongue or face,
Blindly I crush you in my dark embrace!