In the Garden of Silence, Listening to the Blue Voice

Even with lips kept closed,
the soul does not forget its song.

Like a pale blue light,
quietly, quietly,
there is a spirit's song
ringing deep within the chest.

The transparent presence,
while being dyed in a faint indigo,
sways gently in a place
that need not be shown to anyone.

Even if your eyes do not open,
it does not mean the world disappears.

The jet black spreading behind your eyelids
is not fear,
but infinite depth.

There,
prayers before they become words
are sleeping.

Far beyond the darkness,
a spirit that does not rush for meaning
is simply spinning pure words,
one by one.

Even on days when you feel as if your ears are blocked,
somewhere in the narrow hollow,
a sadness like ripples
is just quietly spreading.

It is not that there is a voice that does not ring,
but rather that for now,
the silence is protecting you.

Beyond the horizon,
the wind continues its journey.

Crossing over the indigo sea,
it will surely carry
a nameless poem someday.

The reason you are straining your ears
is because you are preparing
to meet that poem.

Unraveled from the scorching earth,
the spirit that reached the garden of stillness
is wrapped in silence.

Sinking air.
A hollow sunset.

In a place without rustling,
the heart
becomes its most honest.

Even so, the spirit
looks up to the heavens forever,
strains its ears,
and continues to speak with a voiceless voice.

Until now,
and from now on.

Together with you.

While gently embracing
the trembling before it becomes words.

Until the day when a single word
is gently placed
in a world sinking into silence.