All that truly is cannot help but know
what transpires and what always holds.
Irrespective of the place, notwithstanding time.
And only thus laws each soul inherits,
as its vow and lot, can keep
a ceaseless watch.
But whose fault is it
if the soul remains reserved
and speaks to one no more?
That fault is his not hers
and likely worse
if long ago forgotten—
like a caries in an already insensate bone,
a snap, a crack, a flaw
that fails to bridge or fill
if one unlearns, forgoes
whom and why for the holy heals,
only those who befriend their soul.
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