Who asks for a lonely poet
when silence already reigns?
somewhere between all and nothing
If stillness of words speaks nothing,
is it emptiness,
or fullness unmeasured?
If fire in a word burns,
is it consuming,
or is it giving light
to blind hands reaching out?
If tender words break at dawn,
is it weakness,
or the strength of a heart
that refuses to harden?
When sharp words laugh,
who bows to their shadow?
Who fears the spark
that leaves only embers and ash?
Is the mind not always shaping patterns,
weaving palaces for the past,
threads for shadows of memory?
If the lotus blooms unseen,
does it wither,
or is its hidden fragrance
the true poem?
If the fig tree bears fruit in silence,
who reads,
and who is nourished by emptiness?
What vessel
can hold the wind?
What rhythm
can bind the unshaped word?
And if the word,
spoken or inked in gall,
neither commands nor obeys
does it not simply exist?
Is that not the poem
beyond poems?
16 August 2025
The life of Words
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin