Though I know you never reveal them Beloved,
There are undoubtedly splinters deep
in Your hands, those slender, articulate hands
Silently conducting an almighty orchestra
defying categorisation, creating music
appreciated by few.
Splinters driving deep below the surface
Those feuding clans, warring tribes, competing
corporations, religious and sports fanatics, jousting
legal pundits, political adversaries, bickering couples,
and blowhard individuals fuelled
by the wildfire of discord.
All forsaking the Rose for the thorn.
Most of them have never indulged in the lost art
of witling (too much like meditation for most)
or more advanced carpentry skills. Though Oh!
How they create endless splinters.
Like razors they are.
The reflex of God-Man being so different
to the reflex of his lovers and his critics
It’s beyond my comprehension how
You tolerate the irritation. (Sorry, I’m weak)
That get on with it grin, that sign of Perfection
(shaped by index finger and thumb) remains
still conducting, without missing a beat!
And we bound by illusion, how we bitch,
wail and moan about these irritants!
I know these splinters can only be plucked
by a master surgeon, but You Beloved
seem to be in no rush at all!
Don’t worry, be happy (my choice,
complaining usually makes it worse)
All shall pass, but for Your loving
and those splinters endured
on the journey home.