O God let me not, like the elder son, need
to call some servant
to decipher me the meaning of beginning
to be merry.
Let me not force my father out of his house
to conciliate my cold hate
to entreat these recalcitrant feet
to follow him into the feast.
Let me rather O Father
right here
right here
in the difficult field
in the uncut sheaves
in the unthreshed wheat
be singing and dancing for joy.
