a way of looking: Be silent

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Be silent

Be silent

Be silent as the moving clouds

be silent as the door at lock

as the birds that are gliding

as pain in stock

Turn on your other side

when the night is too dark and tight

be silent when breath comes to take you

lifts and throws you up, light in light

And be silent when your hand is giding me

when water tastes and shines all in the glass

to gaze at life as does a child

so big that arm that keeps warm in its coat

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Are the words that we speak or write, our words or do we receive them? Is what we see and hear ours or is it given to us? Is the thin air that keeps us alive, a right or an act of love? And what is more real, the wonder of the beginning or fearing the end?

The poets, if they want it or not, they are the mystics' brothers, and as innocent, and as naive. They too remember more than one world, and they hope to see the mirror lighting up in all what around them is doomed to be silent. Only they, perhaps, still know the formula. So many words, and sometimes they find their place and everything becomes clear. The desire with which they are looking. There is something in that desire that is of love. A hand too can but stay at the surface of the skin, but, imperfect as the touching may be, it is called caress. And the more caressed, the more the skin grows thin. There is a moment when everything is flowing, melted together. That moment comes.