O snowy silence, where the ideal fell asleep -
Like a swan without air, without an echo,
In that moment, words are but the trembling
Of ethereal wings that wearily dived.
The pen will set no seal upon the mist,
For every thought is shadow, a gleam of sleep,
And light that touched the whiteness
Burns so as to vanish - like grace.
My mind is a prisoner of white shores,
Where the silent abyss cries out the name
Of one whom thought never made.
Is there creation where there is no design -
Only the empty height of being,
Where non-being is the single canvas?