Reading on a rainy evening
The hours went. Since I was sitting still,
I listened to the rain’s uneven sounds,
as if it answered to the wind’s remark.
My book was dark.
Its pages were like faces, those, in passing,
we’ve seen and lost, dissolved to thoughtfulness.
Around my book time slurred, accumulated
and words, now vague, in shadows, would express
the evening and dusk and nothingness.
I did not read on. Slowly, lines got broken
and words fell off, pearls from a silken thread,
rolled far away, wherever they must go,
I knew it then, when darkness further spread.
Above the words and thoughts about unspoken,
some blooming gardens heavenwards would grow.
Sun showed itself for one more time before
all separated things met one another fast
like blacked-out people on a lonely shore.
And strangely so, as if it was important,
a last harsh sound of a shut-closing door.
When I put down my book, it seemed to me
I knew all things around me, as inside,
without a border, nothing in between
but limitless, such understanding seen
as unison in one and everything.
and covered the whole sky with stars,
and I, among them, lifted off and flew.