The Quality of Mercy
llana Kurshan
The quality of mercy is not strained.
It drops like gentle rain, or like my tears,
As tense and anxious I stand pleading here
With you, my lord. So realize not my fears.
My father, old and wizened, had two sons
He loved more than us all. And one is gone
A tattered cloak. A pit. A beast and blood
I’ll spare you (so to speak). I won’t go on.
The other boy, the son-of-sorrow turned
The son of his right hand, he could not bear
To part with, til I told him that he must
“I’ll guard him with my life,” I pledged. “I swear.”
“My lord, how can I go back and report
The other boy, bright-eyed and freckle-browed,
Is left behind in Egypt? Father would—
My lord, I cannot speak such words aloud.
Send not my father’s white head down, I beg.
Relax your iron fist, your scepter’s sway.
I tremble at the dread and fear of kings,
Though justice be your plea, I dare to pray:
May all these stars—eleven? twelve?--align
As earthly power shows itself divine.
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The Talmud teaches that the Torah was given in black fire on white fire (Y. Shekalim 6:1). The black fire is the letters of the Torah scroll, and the white fire is the parchment background. In this column, consisting of a poem on each parashah, I will try to illuminate the white fire of Torah – the midrashim, stories, and interpretations that carve out the negative space of the letters and give them shape.
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