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Question (Inspired by the writings of Martin Buber)
I sat with a question in my lap,
A question, one question,
But the question was not a quest,
Not a pursuit of an answer solid,
Not a desire to set things right,
The question I questioned was
a question not infused with light.
I broke down the question,
The question, one question,
Into many parts, divided equally
the question, but the question could not
be separated into parts.
So my question sat upon my lap
Not as a question to be questioned,
but rather a question that sought a reason.
But the reason could not be questioned,
Because the question of the reason
Was not a question bearing light.
I sat with a question in my lap,
A question, one question.
But though the question rested there,
rested there upon my lap,
I could not come up with the question
That came before the question became
a question, so that I questioned.
No answer was found to the mystery
of the question, because the question was
not a question that could find an answer
in the realm that I existed.
The question that I sat with upon my lap,
was a question that belonged to the
infinite realm of questions that had their
answers beyond any questions. So my
question, one question, was not a question,
not infused with light,
not in the realm I existed.
It was beyond the words of the question,
Existed within the breath of eternal life.
So how could I explain my question in my lap?
A question, one question,
When that question found no answer
within the language of all men?
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