In the holy silent void
Like mewing cats outside the fishmonger's
door, lovers say Your name
knowing not how else
to get to the nourishment,
warmth, fresh milk and bloody entrails.
Everything comes true in the end.
No need for disputation, two blind men
arguing over the color of the sky.
There's profound wisdom in knowing
how profoundly ignorant I am;
truth coming near, I must depart
to let it manifest, light the world
except for the dark shape which is me
in the silent holy void
where words fade, lose their power
to persuade or be persuaded.
To say how lovely it all is,
is to say too much.
O child of God, seal your lips about
those things of which you know so little.