This is what was bequeathed us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,Left to us.
No other world
But this one:
Willows and the river
And the factoryWith its black smokestacks.
No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.
No purpose but what we make.No meaning but what we find here.
That, and the beloved's clear instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake.
Gregory Orr
(from How Beautiful the Beloved)
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