I stand in a street and silently call your name. br The children under mothers’ feet br and the birds above the roof tops, br call out too with a shrill urgency to be observed. br A secret thread links all the moving forms, br with nature of a common intent, not theirs. br The sun shines as appointed for its point in time. br The earth turns beneath my feet, br and standing still leaves me behind. br Not in a spatial sense but br rather a receding into the canvas br onto which all these forms are painted. br And consisting of the many threads br unseen by eyes but felt inside the heart. br I’m touched and touching all around, br life gives itself of itself, and time br must wait its turn to be allowed to breathe a breath, br or move a hand across a measured face. br I am at rest and all I know is well. br How can I say, we have no words to tell, br when sound and music fade away br and what is left remains and is unnamed. br But when I truly called you surely came br and I returned back home without my name.