Читать книгу Psalms for Skeptics - Kent Gramm - Страница 6

Bless the Lord, O my soul

O bless the Lord, my soul, whoever you

may be, you keeper of our memories:

you, whom I call mine though I am yours—I,

the day-to-day perception and illusion,

the child of the unconscious mind, body’s

bedfellow, servant, and traducer, dead

in a sweet dream of aphrodesia, dead

in the lost cause of astronomy: me,

loved?—not the clothes horse I know. But someone

I don’t know who knows me is loved: you

the aromatic of the lotus rose,

beloved of the one and only One,

loved, loved—and you know what I only wound

and crucify: bless the Lord, O my soul!