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