A time will come to sit in the shadow of these trees, shawls on our laps, too old even to remember our names. So let's try this. Let's write "Holy, Holy, Holy, Holy" on old scraps of paper and fold them tightly into tiny pills. For whatever Light awaits us on the other side, surely it can't hurt to have some praises already on our tongues. From Kiss the Earth When You Pray: The Father Zosima Poems (Apocryphile Press). Copyright 2016 by Robert Hudson. Used by permission.
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