Opiates heal,
applying a chemical bellows
to the Vital Heat,
a golden silence.
At what cost!
Matchstick limbs out of Auschwitz
Fever-bright eyes
Such sweet poison!

Music heals.
Early music;
Greek Olympian music.
Clusters of notes with open phrasing
dancing on the surface of the Void
and tumbling endlessly in.
Leaving no trace.

But the great
unmatchable healer
is Silence itself.
Into it everything
half-formed phrases,
the concatenation of thought
and the sword-play of tongues.
They all vanish
like snowflakes
in a raging furnace,
leaving no trace.

He who has tasted
the healing wholeness
of the Great Silence,
which lies behind Sound,
as the sky lies
behind planet and star
and cosmic dust,
he does not pursue
the clatter of sound.


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