Canticle

I move forward slowly.

I run toward you,

Soul, Stumbling,

With burning wounds.

Life does not wait,

Nor does it stop.

It throbs and breathes,

It surges and nourishes,

It sings and dances,

But it also flees and dies.

And far away, so very far away,

Its Canticle is heard,

Its Prayer is whispered,

And its weeping can be heard.

By Emilia Montull

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