A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


As a shell upon the ear
Close pressed will bring the sea,
Within my heart, so faint yet clear,
Is whispering to me
A voice in kind to silence near,
A zephyr stirring constantly,
As soft as only I may hear
Yet recognise with certainty.

Lucid, though no word be told,
Insistent as a drum,
The burden of its message holds
A distant, sacred sum,
Another region of my soul
Is calling me to home,
For it be one, yet not the whole
Of all it may become.
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