I love the echo of small things, or the eerie way
the spectral ships glide noiselessly through the fog,
their ghostly crews standing motionless on deck.
I love the plaintive songs of the ancient earth,
when the stones spoke the poetry of stillness,
and animals dreamt of the humans to come.
I love how oceans lulled the hemispheres to sleep
when the glorious light was an object of worship —
oh that beautiful light, that terrible light!
Now we are sailing backwards, maybe
we are vanishing, but it is nothing
to the omnipresent light.
The wind is filled with voices, and ancient
songs which we are just now hearing —
I hope that it is not too late.
I want to sing to the blessed grandparents,
I will let them know the light they loved
is still alive, is still brightly shining,
that we are still not done
with the past.
Let the wind take me, the wild wind, let it
carry me across the oceans like an echo,
an echo that becomes a silent ripple,
a ripple that becomes a shadow,
a shadow that becomes
a summer breeze.
That wafting Summer breeze
is filled with light, yet becomes
even more beautiful in Autumn.
It is Autumn now in this luminous room,
and there is nothing to stop us from falling
into its light, like a leaf, like a piece of light
gently carried along by the breeze of itself,
deep and deeper into the oncoming night.