In the Wheat ~ Songs in your Presence


Later we wore cinctures
and felt some deep moat
surrounding us
like castles must,
or lovers when once smitten.


How many poems
have mothers sighed to You
from their beds of labor
when the pain subsides?

And what words do monks find
evenings in August
when lying on their pallets of straw
while outside
the hay lies drying in the fields?


If only it could be still again
like it was on winter afternoons
at twenty minutes past five,
when the day
seemed to have
laid down its arms
before entering
the truce tent of night.


Can You still hear how groups
of lively boys
talking under the trees
by the semicircular bench
would break off
to allow the silence to settle in
once the bell had rung
for evening prayer?
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