The wind blows fresh wisdom
Empty as usual.
His time and his place stand in shadow
And where he came from
Whistles at us even now.
And what is left is for us
To lend gravitas to our silence
And give our tongues some small resistance.
It was always, what he said, for the others,
Those he could not hear
And those he heard too late.
But it always was a losing cause ...
He became us
As readily as we became the Gods.
How we knew him, how we knew ourselves
Came in on such wisps of wind
There was no separation.
Such is the feeling of oneness,
A puncture so gentle
We still stare with all our yearning at the chasm.
