Poetry

Whispering softly, sometimes indistinct
as vague as sleep
a voice keeps calling, as if it’s drawing
from the dark deep;
in times of happiness and utter gloom,
while people weep
something reaches with invisible arms
with its own sweet silent lingering charms.

In the veldt, in the green grassy meadows
in night and day,
the essence of a kind of divine care
does always stay,
speaks up in the world’s natural beauty,
it is at play
in all the silences of day and night,
in the utter darkness and at first light.