Silence is always here and everywhere;
sometimes we simply hear it more clearly:
fog covers the meadow, the barn door is open,
a redwing’s singing over there, a white
moth circles incessantly around the elm branch
and the branch itself is still swaying imperceptibly
against the background of the evening sky.
The dusk robs us all of faces and names,
only the difference between light and dark remains.
The heart of a midsummer’s night:
the old watch on the desk
is suddenly ticking so terribly loudly.
*