Apart From Worldly Things

In Shrouded Night

In smoldering hours of shrouded night,
when silence pours itself like wine,
cascading through each shadowed chink
to sanctify this hollow shrine—
it's then I hear the thrumming pulse,
so indistinct in daylight's blare,
that binds my mind and breath as one
and finds me whole and present there.

Then, one by one, like soundless thieves,
slim threads of sentiment emerge
that weave together all the world,
as solitude and thought converge.
A thousand voices, rich and clear,
that chant the psalm of human hearts
infuse my being like a flame
that, with a spark of wisdom, starts
to kindle vistas, broad and wide,
as seen aloft from eagle's flight.
So far below, the stream of time
is churning through the still of night.

There is no 'then', there is no 'now',
but rather just a river's course
that tumbles ever onward through
the ages, with no end or source.
And every being, small or great,
that shares this endless flow with me,
is close and real and known and loved
in shrouded night, as it should be.