Shalom Freedman (Troy New York)

A man wrote because he had nothing else he could do-

Even when the writing lost its Meaning
He had no choice but to go on with it
Until the Meaning came back-

And in his quiet sadness and obsession
And in his pain and loneliness and rage
And in his putting all his feeling in his words
One small echo of redemption sometimes perhaps came
Which said:

Somewhere else there is a Universe with or without words
In which whatever you are or do is responded to by 'Yes'.