True poetry does not die; it continues to speak to us--to our soul, if you believe in that word. A friend of mine came across this piece recently. It can not be called poetry in the classic sense: its demand for an answer is too real.
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There is something for you, but you must be able to open it. If you know your Job well, the magic will do the trick.
A
My spirit is broken,
my days are cut short,
the grave awaits me.
B
You have closed their minds to understanding;
therefore you will not let them triumph.
C
My eyes have grown dim with grief;
my whole frame is but a shadow.
D
turn night into day;
in the face of the darkness light is near.
E
if I say to corruption, ‘You are my father,'
and to the worm, ‘My mother' or ‘My sister,'
F
Will it go down to the gates of death?
Will we descend together into the dust?"
When you are done, send me your answer. The correct one will take a gift.
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))
, enjoyed working it out ))
