Golem

In the dim alleys of an old Prague night,
A clay‑figure rises, mute and bright,
Fashioned by rabbi’s whispered prayer,
From earth and water, shaped with care.

His eyes are pits where no light dwells,
His mouth a seam that never tells
The thoughts that stir beneath his brow—
Only the weight of duty now.

He walks the cobbles, slow and stark,
A silent guard against the dark,
His limbs of loam, his heart of stone,
Yet in his chest a yearning grown.

When the Sabbath bell begins to toll,
He folds his hands, returns to soul,
Returning to the dust from whence he came,
A golem’s tale—a quiet flame.