The voice:
That I heard so many years ago,
From the distant lakes,
Near the forests pure.
The voice:
Whispers in quickening breaths,
Beckoning me to quietness,
Calling the wild soul,
Knowing what I know not.
The voice:
Imperceptibly mine now,
Not an illusion,
Or like this world, a delusion,
It speaks through the leaves,
Rustling gently,
Loving truly.
I trust you, voice unknown,
Sharing tragic harmony,
This song of endless stillness,
Perpetual waking, yet asleep,
Your promises feed my dreams.
Deafening is the sound of creation,
Nothing but the echo lingers,
This mind, a trap,
The heart, a mouse,
Phantoms chase, this pitiless shroud.
The voice,
Ah! It is nearing,
Touching,
Feeling,
Stroking,
Listening,
Healing.
A raven takes flight;
The voice is nearing.