“For they are concealed things; none of
them has been
set down in any book.”
—Moses Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed
Our dark sayings are a
well, the waters of which lie at a great depth
and cool, a text for
understanding obscure matters. This, too,
is literally what we say,
may our memory be blessed.
There is a drowned pearl,
but we do not see it and do not know it
is no longer in our
possession. We dropped it down the well.
We tossed it as a wish
into the water. May we find our wishes—
words fitly spoken—waiting
for us in a parable of many words,
not every one of which
adds to the intended meaning.
Maybe some words embellish
like filigree traceries.
Maybe some do not. We
understand this well, for we cast
our voices across the
waters, and they refer to other words
in the great complex of
words. We know this.
We drape our words in the
attire of a wily-hearted harlot,
riotous and rebellious,
her perfumed bed, her alluring speech
and lips enticing husbands
from their wives. The outcome
warns against pursuing
pleasure and desire. The proximate
matter resembles the
proximate matter. How can we
submit to our words?
Sacrifices of peace we owe ourselves?
This day have we paid our
vows? What subject do we sing
by our words? We have
decked our couch with coverlets,
but our lover is not home.
If we admit our spoken words
are typically adulterous,
yet we do not inquire into all
the gestures of such
parables, nor should we wish to find
significations
corresponding to them. Sometimes it is enough
for us to gather from our
remarks that a given story is a parable,
even if we explain nothing
more.
Do not hasten to refute
us, for that which you understand us to say
might be contrary to our
intention. Rather, thank God—oh blessed
name—and be content with
what you have understood.
