A Prayer for the World — Harold Kushner

Let the rain come and
wash away
the ancient grudges,
the bitter hatreds
held and nurtured over
generations.
Let the rain wash away
the memory
of the hurt, the neglect.
Then let the sun come
out and
fill the sky with rainbows.
Let the warmth of the sun
heal us
wherever we are broken.
Let it burn away the fog
so that
we an see each other
clearly.
Let the warmth and
brightness
of the sun melt our
selfishness.
So that we can share the
joys and
feel the sorrows of our
neighbors.
And let the light of the sun
be so strong that we will
see all
people as our neighbors.
Let the earth, nourished
by rain,
bring forth flowers
to surround us with
beauty.
And let the mountains
teach our hearts
to reach upwatrd to
heaven.    Amen

Strange Jewels — Elizabeth Gilbert

Surely something wonderful is sheltered inside you. I say this with all confidence, because I happen to believe we are all walking repositories of buried treasure. I believe this is one of the oldest and most generous tricks the universe plays on us human beings, both for its own amusement and for ours: The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them.
Elizabeth Gilbert, b. 1969
“Blue Purple Red: Amethyst Crystals” by cobalt123 is licensed under Creative Commons.

 

A Poem by Eugenio Montale

This verse from Eugenio  Montale’s poem Low Tide was carved into a wall in Monterossa, one of the five villages that comprise Cinque Terra. Kate, our contact at Firebird Tours, kindly found for me the entire poem in translation.  The verse in bold is the one in the photograph.

 

LOW TIDE

 

Evenings of cries, when the swing
rocks in the summerhouse of other days
and a dark vapor barely veils
the sea’s stillness.

Those days, no more. Now swift slanting

flights pass across the wall, the downward plunge
of everything goes on and on, the sheer coast
swallows even the reef that first lifted
you above the waves.
                                                   
With the breath of spring comes
a mournful undertow of lives
engulfed and in the evening,
black bindweed, your memory only
writhes and resists.
It lifts over the embankments, the faraway tunnel
where the train, entering, slowly crawls.
Then, unseen, a lunar flock shows up
and browses on the hills.

 

Translated from Italian by William Arrowsmith
photo credit from about-cinqueterre.com