The Language Of Silence Poem by Eric Cockrell

we cannot often hear...
the whisperings of the grasses,
the chant of trees swaying,
those intimate voices in the wind...
we have no names for these sounds,
these doings outside the cage.

does the body call from the grave?
do bird's wings exchange secrets with the sky?
is the moment just before, and just after,
the last breath... the only eternity we know?
why do we call god, god?
is the atheist closer to the presence?

we go to wars with righteous fever...
we kill as if a gift.... to whom?
we draw our morals with black crayons
on the sheets of our indiscretions..
wearing our holiness like halloween masks...
who are we fooling?

if you must call her god,
i'm sure she weeps...
the lover mourns who walks alone!
the wind has no name,
and that is enough!
the language of silence
smells like nails and tastes like rain!