We Sing

We sing as does the wind.
Its own song, in its own time.
Whispering, shouting,
speaking inaudible sounds
and listening for its echo.

Silence is a shadow,
an illusion,
there in no quiet where life exists.

There is but, one silence,
one time without stir,
and that is eternity,
death.

Call me a secret,
a face, or a song.
Name me a villain,
a witch, a church mouse.
I am a haunt,
I am the unknown,
I am myself
and you are you.

Are we both so loud
that neither hears?
Are we both so seeming
that neither is?
We sing but our songs seem
stagnant, still
And Yet, we sing and sing
until silence falls.

March 14, 1971
  By Linda A. Copp ©