At the tableWhen I sit at the able and the cutlery and glasses gleamWhen the napkins are folded whiteWhen the chair scrapes the floor just rightAnd my skirt rustles on the seatNeither brocade nor velvet, neither cotton nor silkBut a soft and pliant fabricLike the wished for comfort of the soulIn love with GodThat is when I know I will have found youTo earn a seat at that tableRequires the silence of the selfQuiet as a proverbial mouseAll potentia, possible movement, thought, desireAll probable o
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