#138

His help grew scarce.

He's depleted.

He couldn't give everything
when himself
he couldn't give anything.

But on and on,
the prayer kept flooding—

like a tide that ebbs,
like water from a dam
after the reservoir overflows
and the gates are opened.

Drowning.

Yet still,
somewhere in between,
there remains the wanting
when there is nothing left to give.

Is this the reason why
sometimes the sky feels empty?

Why a poor soul,
in desperation,
prays—

and in desperation,
lashes out—

when still,
no miracle happens?

Does He too
think these thoughts:

What can I do?

They need me,

but there is nothing
I can give them.

All I can do
is listen,

and alongside them,
be sorrowful
and weep.

I am the omnipotent.

I am the omniscient.

But I cannot save everyone.

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