Tell

Tell

We speak the language of the dead.
That which we describe
is only echo in the empty hall of history,
a ghost of memory, imperfect,
whispering against the walls
to make its point, and lost, forgotten,
dry before the wind of change.

It is the change itself that lives,
that vibrates, sings the Gloria;
It is the power of creation,
bearing life undreamed and hopes
that never knew to be expressed,
an ecstasy quite reachable
inside the stillness of a time
just set apart.

Somewhere the sounding of a bell proclaims
an angelus the heart alone recites,
a hymn to the divinity of joy poured out
in that pure sacrament of love.
Soft and far away.
I heard its echo somewhere

...ringing.
~