Light shines from
a thousand prisms,
hung on golden filigree,
above the hall below,
where sheltered men
wear sheltering talitot
and stand and sit and
chant a thousand
shadowed words,
which had once been
written bold and in the light.
Where are the Deborahs to lead the fight?
Where your Huldahs to interpret sacred scrolls aright?
Hidden,
behind heavenly bars above,
made lovely with gilt
and hammered doves,
so no one can make claim,
“They were not taken care of.”
How sad the songs that
sing the praises of Israel
in just one octave.
