Through the silence and the night the troublous song
Is sung by whirring wheel and tender wind,
The crisp refrain of trodden sons of trees
That carpet, colourful, the path to spring.
As cinder smoke swirls in the breeze
And throws the journeyman in delirium,
Caressing boughs reach dawn through misty night
And dampen all to silence in the fall.
The red of newest, maiden mountains parts
For purple fragrance in the sleepy sky,
For time has lost its deepest urge, and thinks,
And thinks, amid the golden light that slips
From deepest rift in cloud-enfolded sky.
The burden of the night, when falling, lies
less heavily because there is a time
when it is not, but in the tired gloom
of written works the only light that comes
is from the pages that, within themselves,
hold truth, and not some passing, fleeting thought.
To this ideal of truth, I dedicate
these pages, in the hope that someday you
may bring to gloom the light of truthful words.
