The Voice
We all are waiting for the voice to speak,
But how will it be spoken? Will we hear
It when it whispers in an ancient Greek
The severity of stone-hard Doric fear?
Perhaps still, small hoarseness in a fire
Will echo in the deserts of our soul
When grief has overtaken us entirely.
Perhaps a lotus blossom is a scroll
Containing silence greater than a word,
A nothingness assuring us of peace
No syllables could give. A dream of blurred
Divinity might stutter and then cease.
..A wheezing seer gurgles in a drawl,
….“Perhaps there is no speaker after all.”