The Open Secret

[Guest guest]

Perhaps it is just because it is the Poet's

heart itself that has been chosen by

an unknown hand, writing

on the parched wall,

sequences of nothingness

pregnant

with the Word,

born from the emptiness

that must be spoken

must be birthed in shared blood

and pain and co-mingling tears,

 

someone

to speak

for all who have

burns on their calloused feet having

walked untold eons to reach

hallowed grounds

fall through untamed

skies with broken wings,

drown

or gasp for breath,

saved on

these unknown shores

 

surrendered

 

in the One And Only Self,

 

and there is nothing left but these words,

that somehow, now,

still flow through us,

as we dance --

the breath of Life

.... itself,

 

with nothing to seek and nothing to give,

 

2.

 

the music is heard and it is so written,

the image is seen and the empty canvas sings in

brilliant colour, forming the shape of earth,

of silence and sepia worlds,

the architect draws and by human sweat a

temple is built

the hole is dug, not deeply,

and the seedling is started

Lovers meet and create creation

fall in love with their own humanity,

unsung heroes fall,

and only the earth weeps,

the servant basks in a smile today

and everyday

death removes what was never there

 

Alone

 

3.

 

 

what is it that speaks?

who is it that listens?

 

who flames my heart

who destroys me so?

 

where is my refuge?

where are my wings?

 

how did I get so lost in this dance of Silence,

in the embrace of my Beloved?

 

I have nothing left to follow,

nowhere else to go.

 

 

Love,

Anna

 

 

 

p.s. we're all poets in our own hearts;-)