The Word

Is my word like a wingless bird,
That falls to the ground without rising to the heights?
No! It is not of those that have soullessly withered,
But a fire that has burned in the silence through the ages.

I hid it like a treasure in the stones,
Not for a world that sleeps, but for a clear truth,
That once sprouted in the chest of a child
And became a sword against the icy darkness.

Let them say: “In vain, it is not of your kind,”
Well, I am an exile from a silent land.
Yet I carry it, the word, through pain and adversity,
Because otherwise, within myself – I would not know myself.