Cold sunrise;
on the widow plane
I write a wish.
Cold sunrise;
on the widow plane
I write a wish.
In the night beyond the walls
where we labor unceasing
with our echoes of meaning,
far beyond the empty urban sprawl
further than even the stars
and yet close to the humming cars-
an unperturbed quiet.
Happy is the hermit to whom silence comes
Happy was the empty hum
Dreaming tongues of glistening rivers sung
Crackling the rupture rung
Blustering the world sprung