An ear pressed against the wall
At the end of the world, he listens to
The silence beyond, craving for some sound,
Any sound–the soundless footsteps of silence,
Autumn leaves warping in the summer sun,
Moonlight splashing into the face of weathered rocks,
The calm face of a placid sea reflecting
The wind tousling rainclouds’ hair in the heavens.
Late at night when silence has swallowed
All the rustles of life, you will hear
A hammer hitting and the ceaseless teeth of a chisel
Grating at the rocks of a wall made of no matter
At the end of the world–the sounds of carving
A world that knows not to emerge.
The child sleeps soundly curled up like in a womb.
What dream it must be in in the quiet cradle?