How difficult to speak, devoid of voice,
Unable to request a second chance,
Or to admit I made a wretched choice
Dictated by my pride and arrogance.
How difficult to write, devoid of arms,
Of fingers and of hands that hold a pen
And scrolls on which I’d copy fervent psalms
Expressing how I wouldn’t err again.
How difficult to pray, devoid of soul,
That inner arm which pulls away from wrong,
That inner voice which teaches self-control
And whispers in the dark, half-cry, half-song.
I slither, soulless, limbless, mute and thin;
How poor a diet is the dust of sin.