Moses the Messiah
To my inordinately great, good, and humble fortune,
Words have never left me in the lurch, deserted me,
Nor have they ever discouraged me from speaking my piece,
Seeking retribution for scourges perpetrated by evil demons
Hellbent on turning my people into Auschwitz clinkers and ash.
Indeed, my received words have left me unconditionally free
To recreate, from imagination's ovens, magical chapters, verses —
Five books for inspiring the wandering masses,
Teaching them how to cry, laugh, dream, pray,
Reach into the night sky and pluck love from the stars' vineyards.
All these eons after following a voice, beyond the pale, to the east,
I've yet to suffer writer's block, struggle for a unique turn of phrase,
An unorthodox trope, or a sui generis symbol,
Fail to bring closure to a black hole in the cosmos,
Extinguish a forest fire of racist hatred in the mind of evil itself.
In fact, I compose like a devil-may-care Moses flogging a rock
Until it gushes forth, with poetic streams of salvation
Irrigating Canaan's thirsting land, to amazing fructification —
Olive and date trees breaking the burning surface,
Feeding God's chosen slaves, sustaining them, through the ages.