Silence often weaves,
Its coursing drape
Through fissures in
The bedlam,
Mending chaos with
A ribbon of silken
Quiet reverie

But that day
When I stood
And watched the snow
Flakes, descending
Through the peace,
Amid the aching trees,
The silence spoke,

Curling up around
My limbs, the wind
Its chariot, trussed
My bleeding heart
then flicked its
Thousand tongues
Against the many
Ardent drums
I did not know I had.

It wrote new dreams,
Planted peace,
Pricked my passions,
And woke whatever
Lazarus had occupied
My inner catacombs.

Now, when it slithers
By, I hear the memory
And witness that
The quiet’s stealth
And fleeting voice
Is its prophetic
Role. My bread into
Flesh. My wine into blood.
It animates, transubstantiates.
Speaking, touching,
And healing with
The halting charisma
And power
Of silence.

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