The Poetry of Silence


A leaf
upon a cloak of leaves
on an autumn morning.

A leaf,
a sound of broken branch,
a white cloud
on the azure profile of the sky

The mystery
of the eternal knowledge
has no name
that contains it

It hides in the wind,
It hides in the flowing water,
It hides in the flap of wings
of the falcon that soars over the prairie.
I am the wind
I am the flowing water
I am the flap of wings

The morning frost
Is at one with the dew.