My monastic cell, narrow as a gate.
No room for why;
discouragement or zeal;
joy or despair; comparisons,
emotions; conviction or doubt;
stripped of everything but one,
last dot of self from which to witness;
offer silent praise and prayer.
To be so tiny, my cell
must open to the sky;
have no walls; the whole
round planet for its floor
and contain in its every unfolding moment
the complete history of existence.
Narrow is my monastic cell; only long,
deep and wide enough for God.
O child of God, the scripture says
enter into a closet to pray.
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