Rapture

Waiting for ascension the fields lie fallow,
the orchards wither,
the animals waste away.

What holy people are these?

Indeed, they must be children ,
for they have abandoned toil to play out their fantasy!

Far off, I sit beside the well of my master
with those who drink their fill of the beloved.
Even as we move with the stars,
tune our instruments to the key of the divine,
we weep that the lost do not take shelter
under the cloak of the beloved.

The beloved, the one truth, whispers tenderly in their ears.
He cradles them and warms them, and protects them against the night air.
Yet, they build fires against the chill,
and plan for a time when there will be no chill,
and lay waste to their riches against the chill,
and steal riches from others when theirs are no longer enough.

Though we give the light of a thousand worlds,
they will stumble in the dark.
They will take from us all but our white cloaks, though we gladly give them.
They will insist that we drink the sand of their fantasy when we sit by the well of the master.
Do not think, brothers, that our hands may only play the lyre.
Ours is to tune the instrument, to guard it against extremes,
to oil it, to clean it, to polish it.
Where harmony has been disturbed,
we restore.
Where madness supplants sanity,
we restore.
Where children have forgotten the elders,
we restore.
Where the water has lost its sweetness,
we restore.