[CENTER:4f10ceaac1]If a subtle ear could hear,
The scratching of a subtle pen,
Which side of me would the –
Ethereal sound emanate from then?

Angel to the right of me and angel to the left,
At turns occupied with recording,
My choices that are spent.

If their scrolls were heavy in this world,
Which of my shoulders would be bent?

I fear the left is busy and right sits idle yet.

For despite sins not being multiplied,
Mine still reach the sky.
Even though bad thoughts aren’t quantified,
Mine are still a mountain high.

On His earth I acted shameless,
But sweat-drenched with guilt,
In His court I will be shy.

Unconscious of the permanence of every road walked,
Heedless to the solidity of every word I spoke.

Reams of deeds I have forgotten,
But my book with their ink is stained.

If my inner ear had only heard the scratching of the pen.