He’s a wise old sort of fool, and he makes a quiet noise
And yet the stillness moves, upon his wordless voice
As placid whispers drift, like silk upon the breeze
He listens to the silence, of the daffodils and trees.
He feels calm agitation, a stirring deep about
The brilliance of his dullness, reflects him in and out
Though it sounds preposterous, ridiculous, absurd
Whispers of the silent One, speak volumes in a word.
He holds an empty vision, a glass eye on his youth
All questions to his answers, lie ageless in the truth
He can’t speak words that tell, yet some hearts he has awed
With just one look at him, you’ll hear the voice of God.
He preaches ceaseless endings, their birth coming fast
All months in the future, will be the days soon past
He foretells the Ancient Days, predicted long ago
Dry tears hardly fall this soft, still birth the fallen snow.
A rainbow came into view, one august night in June
While he was blindly glaring, at darkness of the moon
He may be dumb and sightless, but not as some might claim
Though everyone is not alike, he sees them all the same.
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