Listening, touching, being
I saw a soul pass by, and paused. Was that a cry?
Beneath the noise of argument, was that a sigh?
Stop, be still, I heard my spirit say; who know when I
Will see again this soul pass by this way?
The sighing soul, so quiet, fearful,
heard my silence, spoke
fearing my voice would mock her pain;
I held quite still, as if to say
my presence was no joke
and watched the stillness, till she spoke again.
So gently, trembling, from the secret depths she rose;
The tender soul revealed the wounds she bore,
And let me reach, and touch, within the silence,
The beauty of her being,