In the depth of my soul there is A wordless song - a song that lives In the seed of my heart.
It refuses to melt with ink on Parchment; it engulfs my affection In a transparent cloak and flows,
But not upon my lips.
How can I sigh it?
I fear it may Mingle with earthly ether;
To whom shall I sing it?
It dwells In the house of my soul, in fear of Harsh ears.
When I look into my inner eyes I see the shadow of its shadow;
When I touch my fingertips I feel its vibrations.
The deeds of my hands heed its Presence as a lake must reflect The glittering stars; my tears Reveal it, as bright drops of dew Reveal the secret of a withering rose.
It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamor,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.
It is the song of love;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?
It is more fragrant than jasmine;
What voice could enslave it?
It is heartbound, as a virgin's secret;
What string could quiver it?
Who dares unite the roar of the sea And the singing of the nightingale?
Who dares compare the shrieking tempest To the sigh of an infant?
Who dares speak aloud the words Intended for the heart to speak?
What human dares sing in voice The song of God?
