And when they tell us how foul we have been
The many wars we have waged
How ****** and separatist our histories have been
when they cry in full rage
full of resentment towards our direction
We will say “baby, that is less than half
of what we have been.”
What about the silence
what no one could describe
–no mouths,
no language deep,
or high enough–
for its daily beauty was (is),
too profound
Fibers of life
made from those soundless instants
woven in clear thread
holding the seams of this existence jointly together
Present at the second a mother reaches out her arms
to meet those of her crying child: soothing, healing, comforting, warmth
–no words could raise a flag and reign
in absolute totality
over its meaning
over life
Just like adjectives cannot describe
my smile greeting yours; our sacredness,
Our brilliance is here in the absence of words
If you are to judge us; judge us by the quiet moments
(that you too can touch and that survive us all)
judge us by the mighty stillness
(the root and anchor of it all)
