Sometimes late at night
Or very early in the morning
In that twilight between sleep and waking
I hear the faintest little signals —
Transmissions from some place close,
Yet I can never trace their origin.
It doesn’t happen very often:
There’s usually too much noise.
If I could shut up the world, I would —
I’m tired of hearing our words.
Years of yapping have yielded nothing
But spectacle and heartache.
It’s time to close our nasty mouths
And seek shelter in quietness;
To commune in solace,
And listen to the wisdom of silence.