Before you were born, a sliver of breath in your mother's womb,
cut finer than the thinnest silver, that lines the shelves of kings
who have forgotten what it means to rule: I named you,
and in your name, I called the waves of the ocean,
the trees and the roots of the trees, even when they stand
uprooted, white peeking out from brown mud, indented by bare feet.
I called the songs of the Levites' harps,
and the cries of the beggars in the alleyway,
where the pilgrims buy their sacrificial sheep.
I called you: To rule, because they could not rule,
to be vanquished like a lover, by silence and chains.
Do not expect gold when the sun rises.
http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1101.htm
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