The lost language
You had Your chance
but, held Your peace –
perhaps, because only a handful
understood Your language.
Later, Your silence became Gautama’s flower;
a sand grain, a moon and stars’ silence;
the noiseless marrow of our bones;
the pause between heartbeats;
the silence of the backs of our hands,
the napes of our necks –
a silence wrapped in dust; the kernel of the grain;
the hollowness in the horn of plenty.
You had Your chance to speak –
and Your Word flooded the planes,
reaching the smallest, most turbulent and severe
of all our dry places; sated the heart
and began our re-acquaintance
with the lost language of God.
O child of God, His dialogue, is continuous and pervasive,
how could you ever feel beyond its range?