"Which way from here?
Oh yes, I know the land,
Each hill and stone; but
Whither now?
Whence and why?
WHERE AM I?"
Holy ground. Put off thy shoes.
"Holy ground?
What is holy ground?
Take off my SHOES?!
I grew up in palaces, you know,
Where marble floors are smooth and cool;
Such luxuries mean nothing to me now,
But some small protection
I still need:
This land is arid, primeval—
Sharp, sunbaked stones
And desert thorn;
And what about the sparks
From this pyrotechnic show?
And yet ...
There's no smell of fire,
No scorching heat—
The searing sun is tempered
By a welcome breeze.
I'll loose one latchet. ...
No! I'll take them off. ...
It's SOFT!! God's threshold."
Holy ground. Put off thy shoes.
Is no awesome admonition,
No stern exhortation;
It's an invitation.
