On the Way to WorkRichard Soberpaintings

I’m banished to the promised land. I don’t pray. On the contrary, people pray for me. I crossed a dry river, departed a place rich in green woods and water, but I was always unquenchable. I drifted away transporting myself to where it does not matter to anyone who I was where I come from or what I do where I am. When the highway is full of travelers, commerce and undecided voters, I lock myself in the woods and listen to the pines shaking in the wind. The promised land is a real place, but, it is not in the bible. It’s in the heart, throbbing like blood in arteries. If you find yourself there you may feel that even if you are satisfied you may not be able to share your song with anyone. This world is losing its ears. For anyone who wants to be heard this is a disaster like rain that never reaches the ground. I come from place always unhealed. Everywhere you find yourself is promised land.

RS 2008