Wilderness
Sitting silently still,
mistaken for apathy, yet
content as if it saw an
unshakable proof for God.
Like birds that have
whispered with the wind,
conversed with the sky.
A soft slumber spot and
food for worms, who may say
to each other, "We never
wrote a symphony, but
we didn't hurt a soul."
Sitting silently still,
mistaken for apathy, yet
content as if it saw an
unshakable proof for God.
Like birds that have
whispered with the wind,
conversed with the sky.
A soft slumber spot and
food for worms, who may say
to each other, "We never
wrote a symphony, but
we didn't hurt a soul."
Found you from the Jónsi forum. I don't quite know what your poem "Wilderness" is about exactly, but I love it. Nice blog, I'll read more I think :)
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