The Great Silence

The Great Silence calls
       Where no more is heard
The cry of a whippoorwill,
The gentle breeze through meadow grass,
Or seen the dimples of a sparkling mountain brook.

Dissolved into the cliff of Time
     All outward doors forever locked; 
Sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell
Turned within, sighted

Only Silence, where all comes to rest.
The Great Silence calls
     Where all is not, and all is,
The womb of no-thing, vibrant with all,
All disappeared, there is no turning back
From The Great Silence, still.

Edith O. Tipple

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