A seeker of silences am I.
Through furious-changing seasons I rest;
In snow and harvest find I reflection.
What voices call upon the wind,
In my reward of requiem,
To tell me of the death you have escaped.

A stranger to multitudes am I.
Whose ears cower not from shattering sound;
Whose head bends never to chattering mouths.
To you whom quiet has never touched,
Hold from judgement your lashing tongues,
Though be you ever such solace denied.

A lover in solitude am I.
Lighted by trembling stars and lantern moon;
Lying in full attitude of repose.
Then, who of you should seek myself,
Let he be led not to my door,
But wait, ‘til I, in Time’s own truth, return.

by James Whitworth

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