The great events -
they are not our loudest hours
but rather, our stillest of hours.
Through the fury
the earth revolves inaudibly
silence seeping like a pregnant moon
saturating a secret valley
blank meadows opening to cold white light
flooding the valley, a beatification -
Power, turned gracious,
descends into the visible
(kindness, the final self-conquest of the powerful)
My stillest hour speaks in a whisper
the stillest of sounds which brings on the storm
and goes forth as a shadow leading the way.
Great events rarely roar
as cannons over killing fields -
When the noise and smoke clears
very little has happened.
Of little consequence
are mummified cityscapes
and statues thrown down in mud.
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