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Cry of the Heart


We search the margins of the world

for a returning voice.

We ply, in the deepest parts of the night,

for starships to carry us, born upon the

winds of magic, to deeper resolve.

We long for the credible voice,

for the echoes return,

for the whisper of light,

for dawn’s reassuring.

We take part in mystery

often only in words,

sorry substitutes for

matters of the heart.

We live for the silences of

the inner worlds to break.

To make known our vague

and aching miseries,

our arching fears,

the trembling question,

the extended sadness.

We wish for a resolved chord,

Drumbeats that will not fail us,

smoke from fires from rocky

plateaus set far out in the

distant hills.

We suspect silence

and absence.

We live within the cold science of

sound barriers never breached,

But words too deep for words

are attended. Eternity listens.

Sound Barriers have been broken

by the velocity of our pain, by the

dizzying speed of our desperation.

The moon’s dark side

vibrates with anticipation

of the light.

The night hawk whispers

to the wind gracing its

feathers,

walks on columns of air,

suspends within the silences,

courses through wilderness

shadow and divides the

distances.

Great Longing, occasionally

we hear the church bells

from outside our window.

But words can be irregular things,

Vague attempts to describe the mystery

of what we feel? What we seek?

Perhaps enough to say we

are witness to the Reaching,

to the Inexpressible, Within,

Knowing such Undefined Eloquence

is better Known by One who

translates into purest language

this broken and stammering tongue.

Written for a new book I am contemplating.

If you like, leave a response on F/B. Would

be most welcome. Possible working title:

Sojourners of the Spirit.

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