Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.
Not on any map, the cities of Sarras, Monsalvat,
Where knights of the Temple meet
Who keep the roads to the holy places; yet
We know the twelve secret ones who serve
Their invisible Master are always on earth, somewhere,
Though none knows who they are: a Jewish beggar
In New York City may be the Messiah, unrecognized,
Martin Buber wrote; a French savant
In Iran; a wounded poet I have long known;
A Ute Indian; an Irish Carmelite monk in Kensington;
Some holy ‘stalker’ in Russia, or, who knows,
The man who made the film? My own father?
I cannot reach my count of twelve, but have sometimes felt
The brushing of a crimson archangel’s wing.
Kathleen Raine (to David Gascoigne)
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