Prodigal
No need of loaves to multiply,
The wheat and oven I supply,
Nor flesh compounded by My wish
For many now the nets of fish
But scarce as winds beneath the sea
Master-perfect poetry,
Rare as robins on the moon
A singer who can sing in tune
And so I will proliferate
As loaves the crowds of Hebrews ate
By verse and stanza songs of praise
On which like suns the few may gaze
There is a famine of the string
Which plucks itself, begins to sing
Pavel
August 1, 2011
