The Soul of God

Nothing easier than
to grasp the Trinity.
And nothing intricate or contrived
in the icon not made by hands.

Prostrate by the ambo,
the old monk, deep in thought,
I asked about the soul,
but the man drove me out.

Later, in other monasteries,
in other worlds and evenings,
I asked more of God’s viziers
about the Shepherd’s soul.

There were explanations, too.
They fell into disputes.
They named the Image and the Likeness.
They painted me a Dove in words.
Some kept silent.

And I, with the innocence that comes
to a shepherd boy on the hillsides,
went on searching
and asking after the Soul of the All-World.