The Rivers of Binah

Before the rivers ever dared to run,

Malchut stood naked, nowhere to run.

Every want screamed, “Fill me now,”

But nothing answered — not then, not how.

She reached for Light with filthy hands,

Took what she could, broke every command.

Called it wisdom, called it fate,

But every grab only deepened the hate.

Pleasure burned quick, then left a scar,

Another empty night, another bar.

Prayers turned hollow, lips learned lies,

Asking for heaven with wolfish eyes.

Then came the stop — the brutal freeze,

“No more receiving for self,” she decrees.

A blade to the heart, a wall to the soul,

Restriction hit hard — took total control.

No light, no warmth, no holy sound,

Just silence thick, crushing, profound.

The ego howled, kicked, cursed the night,

“Better to die than give up this fight.”

That’s when the crying finally broke,

Not for reward, not for a smoke.

A prayer rose raw, stripped of disguise,

“Teach me to give — or let me die.”

Only then did the rivers begin,

Not rushing in — but flowing within.

Binah leaned down, gentle but firm,

Showing Malchut a different term.

Not “take and live,” but “live to give,”

Not “prove you’re right,” but “let others live.”

Hassadim wrapped the shattered need,

Teaching the vessel how to receive.

Now rivers are flowing — measured, clean,

Binah is showing what mercy means.

Malchut receives just what she can send,

Light passes through her — not to her end.

And that’s the miracle, quiet and true:

Heaven descends when the self says “through.”

The river doesn’t drown the land,

It makes Malchut like Binah — hand in hand.