I abandon the path and mark my visit
deep into natures greens and hidden groves
how the beauty of everything intoxicates me,
and consuming it all leaves me only with no sense:
speechless and bewildered, like a baby.
words seem but a lost cause to me ;
it is almost as if the ferns and its charms
don’t want to be spoken of –
not even a praise.
upon astray land I leave my trail
up the thick pine hill, down the lonesome glen
I sit desperately, in search of only half a word –
it makes no difference at all.
a hint, a hum of frigid air
deep twilight falls upon me like a star
and I fall with it into my own silence.
the hypnotizing haunt of crickets in unseen places
numbs me, almost becomes me
and I become them, like everything becomes
the other thing that lives in its own way.
and just hearing the wise creek babbling,
the traveling breezes’ secret murmur ;
I know I have been unaware all along.
the poem was never mine to write:
I have only to listen.
— The End —