They fell into a river, black as hell
in darkest Prague. The scars
still sear his back.
Through centuries of misery,
his halo slipped and sank
into his fragile skull.
Its heat ignites his ancient mind.
It sparks and scorches every cell,
shoots lightening through his eyes.
But still he sings his sacred hymns.
His lips locked in eternal song.
And place a pen in his shaking palm
to see the psalms flow from his fingers.
And if you find yourself alone,
a broken bird or lost for words,
he'll send you a sign, a symbol, a sentence,
a prayer prepared for you.
Something so simple and absurd,
that you'd always known
just had never heard.
The Nashalim has lost his wings,
but still he soars,
with ravens on his shoulders.
