A MA'ALOT Poem for Shelomo.
Unless the Lord builds the house, they who build it labour in vain: unless the Lord keeps the city, the watchman stays awake in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of toil: for truly to his beloved he gives tranquility. Lo, children are a heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is a reward. As arrows in the hand of a mighty man; so are the children of one's youth. Happy is the man that has his quiver full of them; they shall not be put to shame, but they shall speak with their enemies in the gate.

отдельное спасибо noxa@lj за риторические вопросы о русском верлибре.

He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time.
Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious
was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky
and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it
was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was
he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this,
all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the
first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no
longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental
diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman,
who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river,
and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and
divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and
purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here
Siddhartha. The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere
behind the things, they were in them, in everything.