A lake lies all alone in its own shape.It’s not going anywhere.A lake can wait a long timefor a hiker to comeand camp on its shore.It will reflect the moonlight,give him a drink of pale silver.Toward dawn, the wind might ruffleit a little, and the waterwill have words with the granite.Once the hiker goes awaythrough October meadows,the lake will sparkle by itself.You’ll never see it. There isso much you will never see.
Daniel Bell on just war and counterinsurgency, Amy Frykholm on the black church and hospice care, Awet Andemicael on interfaith encounters.
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