#Rationality #Religion #Poetry

Can you claim to behold, cupping a flame, the breadth with which it breathes?

Or does it cease to breathe, clasped by the torments of the mind?

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For the clutches of the mind corrupt, leaving only what can be known, forsaking the unseen.

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Does a poet not lament their hands, an artist, their tongue?

But what is ineffable to the stanza, what can't be immortalized by the canvas?

Neither the poet nor the artist understand, yet they see what reason cannot.

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Woe is the man who thinks, for he blinds himself with knowledge.

Woe is the man who cannot see, for behold, heaven is before him, but his sputtering flames closes his gates.