Abide inside a balance too vast to feel,
a stillness that is not peace but weariness.
Melancholy, that ancient guest, has learned our tongue
and speaks through the drone of commerce,
through the blue-glow screen at night,
and the ever-present every-day.

How small the world has become:
a market of shadows,
a theatre of suspicion,
a crowd that gathers nowhere
but will not disperse.

Poetry pinions the edges,
music lingers at the lip,
prayers apprise the heavens
and yet the heart folds its wings
and the spirit closes its eyes,
not in terror, not with hope,
but with a tired patience
that waits for nothing
and refuses to break.