Charism Glossa Poem by Mark Sauer

Not a miracle, but the lack of one,
Roiled the tongues on the plain of Babylon.
Not decree, but repeal, sowed confusion
To the rebels, by the fiat withdrawn.
Nor was Pentecost a special wonder,
But a last parable for the simple;
Grace does not increase when split asunder;
One, or legion, is the same miracle.

We grunt in our throat, we whistle and hiss,
Flapping semaphore tongues like flags in sign;
Somehow mind, truth and love cross the abyss,
Somehow remote sealed worlds touch and combine.
Though I do it now, it cannot be done;
We cannot speak a thousand tongues... or one.