Blaze, sun, blaze you fire streak, Above horizon ashen sneak, Specked with brilliant heat from molten core, Ball of flames such orange pumpkin, Burning object, many lore.
A gleeful creature shed rays of light, Bring swift end to blanket night, Lava white pinpricks vanish far, Seen not 'till the moon prevails, And sky so soft is dipped in tar.
She with fame a myth ruled over day, Angel pure free from decay, Deity honored with many precious gift, Bow down to her majesty, Sacrificed poor lamb so swift.
But she, a terrible being slaughter, Stole away liquid, took the water, Dried the life, said died of thirst, Wrinkled hopeless fruit from limb, Not only blessing, 'tis the worst.
I'm looking at the starlit sky, I'm looking at the timeless heavenly plough land, Along which the Father sows the seed of eternal light. I'm looking at the falling star, Mercifully weaving the magic light Above the lonely dreamer on his path of dreams - Let us hurry, not for our sake, not for lost dreams, But for the future - I'm looking at the drop of rain on the wild rose's petal Early in the morning, How it trembles in its purity and nakedness, Like an angelic clear tear on the face of an abandoned woman; I'm looking at the rose in early bloom Waking and offering itself to the brand new day Like a woman to her beloved - Once you shall return and wipe away the tears We kissed and smelled under the Northern Star's light together - I am humbly looking at the sun as if it was a heavenly blacksmith, Welding harmony within human souls. I am looking at the centennial oak, As if it was an eternally young pharmacist, Offering its healthy medicine for free. I'm looking at the tree's straight posture, Drowning its young branches In the embrace of the sun's golden light, While the wind is brotherly fondling its wrinkled face, Whispering on about its thousand years of loneliness and loving - Don't be afraid to fall in love, love is the seed of new life - I'm looking at the man who doesn't hear Nor understand what nature is trying to tell him.
In quiet rooms where whispers fade, I hold the words I’m slow to trade. No eager ear nor friendly gaze, Just watchful walls that keep my days.
A thousand thoughts like scattered sand, Slip through the spaces of my hand. Who counts them all? Who hears them fall? He knows. He listens. Knows them all.
I need no crowd to weigh my heart, No vows that fail or drift apart. When voices fail and doors are shut, He is enough. My soul is shut.
The secrets kept in silent air, He gathers gently in His care. The tears I hide behind my eyes, He measures deep. He hears my sighs.
When no one stays and none remain, He mends the seams of unseen pain. In quiet trust I find my part: He is enough to fill my heart
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WHISPERS OF THE QUIET GROVE 
