In the stillness of evening,
the moon sits upon the edge of the window,
like a silent guest,
carrying a secret,
too shy to speak of it.
And from afar,
from the heart of the commotion,
from the depths of the darkness,
there reaches the ear
the barking of a stray, weary sea-dog,
restless upon the coastal rocks,
as though the wind of death
had breathed into him,
leaving him with
the cough of the flood.
And you, alone,
listen with all your senses
to the voices
of passing seasons,
seasons that have grown old
upon the tongues of pens,
and between the pages of time.
How many words
have been entrusted to ears,
yet found no path to the heart?
And how many hands have reached out,
seeking to grasp a little piece
of the sweetness of loyalty,
only to find no hand
descending from the heights,
coming forth to shake hands with the promise,
so that the dried-up streams
might spring to life again.
And ever since that time,
within your shattered silence,
you still whirl,
as though upon the shoulder
of a distant star,
circling around the one you love,
desperate to find a word
with which to put your feelings into words.
Such is the heart:
whenever it departs,
it never returns unscathed…
And before the moon disappears,
it wishes to say something
of those secrets
that have glimmered within its depths.
And so its sitting
upon the edge of the window
is filled
with the flicker of words.
At the end of the night,
the moon hides
behind a dark cloud,
yet you continue to gaze down the road,
to no avail.
Though within the heart,
heavy with brokenness,
a tiny flame
still burns, faintly.
And even now,
beneath the shadow
of a solitary dusk,
you listen to the creaking
of angry thunder,
and to the falling rain,
having come to understand
that tears,
besides the eyes,
have other channels through which to flow.
When silence becomes
the final refuge
for keeping a promise,
even after being let down.
