All around is silent now,
both without and within;
save the air of my breath,
vague, as a kind of music,
tho’ as barely a whisper;
no creature stirs with life,
no breeze escapes in sigh;
it’s as if time is lost here,
or no time had been at all;
and I, aware only of silence,
become lost in the stillness,
as tho’, being still, I live;
thus, by remaining lifeless,
‘ere, death cannot find me;
e’en night sky stands still,
unwilling to be dispersed;
tho’ it could be tumultuous,
this storm of silence reigns;
and if there were one sound,
some recall of splendid din,
it must be quite empty now,
left merely as a lone ripple
amid undisturbed ephemera,
‘ere silence seems content,
if only to stay its usefulness.
Petrichor 