- format this poem correctly
- By Abracadabra we signify An infinite number of things. ‘Tis the answer to What? and How? and Why? And Whence? and Whither? – a word whereby The Truth (with the comfort it brings) Is open to all who grope in night, Crying for Wisdom’s holy light.
Whether the word is a verb or a noun Is knowledge beyond my reach. I only know that ’tis handed down. From sage to sage, From age to age – An immortal part of speech!
Of an ancient man the tale is told That he lived to be ten centuries old, In a cave on a mountain side. (True, he finally died.) The fame of his wisdom filled the land, For his head was bald, and you’ll understand His beard was long and white And his eyes uncommonly bright.
Philosophers gathered from far and near To sit at his feat and hear and hear, Though he never was heard To utter a word But “Abracadabra, abracadab, Abracada, abracad, Abraca, abrac, abra, ab!” ‘Twas all he had, ‘Twas all they wanted to hear, and each Made copious notes of the mystical speech, Which they published next – A trickle of text In the meadow of commentary. Mighty big books were these, In a number, as leaves of trees; In learning, remarkably – very!
He’s dead, As I said, And the books of the sages have perished, But his wisdom is sacredly cherished. In Abracadabra it solemnly rings, Like an ancient bell that forever swings. O, I love to hear That word make clear Humanity’s General Sense of Things.
Jamrach Holobom