Some days, I would
sell my own soul for thirty
pieces of silver, just
to hear the coins,
solid and real, clinking
in my pocket.

Some days, I too
would sell my birthright
for a steaming bowl of stew,
because hunger is here
and now.

I would throw myself
from the highest cliff;
I would light myself on fire,

if it were not for the voice
that whispers, “That
is not what I ask of you.”

 //

Some days, that voice
is enough.

– K. Chripczuk

* I’ve spent weeks thinking about whether and how to explain this poem, feeling it needed an explanation to soften it. For now, though, I’m letting it stand as is. I’m curious, what do you hear in it? How does it speak to you? Thanks, as always, for reading and sharing.