THE MIST SPEAKS

The Mist Speaks

Fogs and mists of rainy days,
strangely inspire a faith,
The depression melts and merges with the fog still far away
from where I stand on the distant point of the hill,
heightens the mystery, deepens the wonder.
Here the rains hiss and toss
the fragile curtains and rush in the drops;
the leaves of the pages flutter.
I have no need to read,
nor is there an urge to write.
The general silence all around,
and the strange sounds I couldn't have heard
come alive,
pervade the air
in swelling and ebbing cadences.

the mighty wind forces the window open;
I have no need to shut it again.
the hills of the farthest region come in view,
the whole hill otherwise hidden in a cloud
shimmers through the fog and stands aloft in a majestic height.

Deep sounds of a ritual drum
become deeper still in the layers of the cloud,
clashing cymbals and the sonorous chorus
of priests reciting prayers in the sanctuaries
draw closer and closer in the foggy wind.
muffled and deep yet as they catch
the resistance of the disbelief.

The forces of dissolution,
of transformation,
I yield to them in awe.
And strangely, I do not fear.
Protection, seclusion and security,
pervades and surrounds.
By no apparent logic I understand
the world of sounds not heeded before.