Song of the lulav
The morning appears,
and the morning does appear,
when night has tired out
its protean relics.
When the mourners mourning
have all sat down
after their ancient chant.
When the shawl is lifted
from over the eyes
of the willow trees
who, in the meanwhile,
have taken it upon themselves to cover up
their own eyes, beneath the shawl
and even beneath their lifted hands.
The morning comes, and it does,
when all of the ashes
settled on the altar, sedimented
in skeletal layers,
are finally taken to
with a brush, a lulav
belonging to the first of the faithful to wake.
Within the moon
is contained the next morning.
All of this is possible thereby.
The full moon
is already a morning
for the tired enough,
for those already let go
of the hydriform handles
riveted to the great big mug of the night.
The awaiters,
whose palms are red raw
from being dragged along,
they're so tired.
Their mouths are filled to the brim
with almond leaves,
with untellable secrets,
whatever they drank from that bitter cup.
They hear in the mourners’ chant,
and hear correctly,
a tacit agreement to remain quiet
on the mysteries of dawn.
But also on the heroic feats
they accomplished to arrive there.
A light rain begins to fall,
just enough to wet the face.
I wake up,
cupping a statuette
in my bare hands,
wondering what it is,
knowing its importance, but not why,
trying to guess if I ever knew why.
Maybe while I was sleeping
this was the relic whose name
was obvious,
and maybe with covered eyes
it glows.
Maybe it contains a promise
that only night could've fulfilled.
Covered up by the hours,
the long, ashen hours,
I hesitate to open my eyes.
Afraid of meaning nothing,
afraid of finally seeing
the very thing
that kept me while I slept,
and as I wept,
and I admit that my spirit is not afraid
but my god is,
afraid of what I might bring
to the altar once it's cleared
and ready to be used up again.