Until we have the language <br />we cannot understand <br />how exiled from the adage <br />we call the promised land. <br />Our words are ploughshares digging <br />into the dormant soil <br />creating springtime's twigging, <br />creating human toil, <br />to recreate the wombtime <br />where rocked by God we slept <br />oblivious of tombtime, <br />the word we can't accept. <br /> <br />LRH <br />7.30.07 <br /> <br />reply to GWH on his poem Writer's Country<br /><br />Linda Hepner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/why-words/
