There was a secret language in the air in those days.
Dreamily written on twigs and fingertips,
wings above echoing old calls of love.
Some were scratched out, lovingly
With sudden blessings and grace
In the sounds of three birds
Listening for the call of the child.
Snakes danced in the ground,
Down old corridors of being.
Sly eyes laughing as they read
The words left for another form.
The sound, the word, the symbol
Etched in wood and stone to remind
The natural mind whence all things come
Of the One Sound vibrating away
Come and go...come and go...come and go.
No real secrets were there, merely
Forgotten words invented for someone else,
Reinvented in new colors and shapes.
No comments:
Post a Comment