Power is often very quiet
Very quiet
At the end of the day this is what we are tryng to do
Understand, understand
And it is the brightest, most extremely searching minds
That develop and think and posit
New and stimulating models(?)
for us to superimpose
And we feel our own experiences
And we feel the oddity of being alive
And we have no choice in the matter
We get trapped here briefly
Change nothing
Measured against infinity
At best stretch slightly nearer to the sky
The most stimulating thinkers
risk all to grasp the most deepest
and most hidden revelations
Yet if they even suspect they've glimpsed
a usable piece of essential pattern
They are left crippled in the expression of it
How does such a master pass on knowledge?
Through the most flawed and mystical medium of all
Language
Language!
Power
Language
Quiet
And like most forms of behaviour
it is inherited
And it must by definition
contain within it
coded and drenched in aeons of subjectivity
a mass of confusion
and a few insights
At Stokholm
we could not speak
although the sudden glow of passion
mantling to the crimson cheek of either
told our tale of love
although we could not speak
What need of language
barren and false, and bleak
while our white arms could link each other so
and fond red lips their partners mutely seek?
What time for language, when our kisses flow eloquent
warm, as words are cold and weak?
Or now — Ah! sweetheart
even were it so we could not speak!
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