On the Holidays every prayer seems right
The sanctuary is our social hall transformed.
Our services - not Orthodox but restructured,
Or reformed - my attempt to cast God’s light
Of love and mercy to my angels whose flight
Plans await God’s call. A hope rekindled,
The dream of Hotel Paradise recalled,
And then forgotten here where day and night
Are marked by clocks. Where all insight
Is the moment’s gift. Where the confused
But hopeful pray and sleep, gathered
As a holy congregation, restless but contrite.
And sorry for something – what it is they can’t say
Knowing tomorrow today will be just another day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem