It Is What I Never Said

It is what I never said,
What I'll always sing—
It's not found in days,
It's what always begins
In half dark, in half light.
It's shining so curved
Yet rises so tall and tells
Where the first flower dove
When God's hands lost love.
It's a great word without sound
Without echo to reveal
Where fragrance went down!
O, but it's all of it there
Above my poems a Wreath.

(Published in Have Come Am Here 1942)

by Jose Garcia Villa

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