In Praise of Silence

woman in brown topYou speak. Nevertheless, those lips vibrate like the beating of a gnat’s wings. Speak. You speak when the sun screams, or the rain whiningly whispers its song. In the cracks in the wall, the slowly advancing snail, the dust shading the balcony railing.

Perhaps you find your outlet at night, but what prize can be given to an eternal winner? Is it not like that lemon tree still hanging on the old branch? Isn’t that your voice? Thunderous as the roar of the void, insistent as the had that never stops telling lives?

And what words can reach the poet’s pen to draw a picture of your eloquence? Perhaps one should follow the pirouettes of smoke rising from the coffee cup. Perhaps one should bathe in the glare of an undecided tear. Was the man crying? Or was it the harassing pollen masquerading as an indistinguishable Pierrot?

Speak. Despite everything, you speak. Even when no one wants to listen to you, the illusion you give is lovely. Like May air, you make love to every creature, but the limelight is never yours. Speak. And, in your speaking, you give life silence.


 

Share this post on:
FacebookTwitterPinterestEmail

Related Posts

  • A face watches me: it is motionless, but its eyes flicker like flames courted by the wind. Every color is silent, fading, falling asleep, and the air melts the contours, creates unity, and tears down…

  • I admit it: I love the rain, the storm, the sky full of life, ready to erupt, swirling like the rip of lightning. It is lovely to stay in the shelter and observe how powerful…

  • I would like to continue the unraveling of avant-garde and experimental music by analyzing some of its most iconic compositions. In this case, it is the famous (famous and, in a way, even "infamous," considering…