Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sitThe Waste Land, T.S. Eliot
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
There is a seed in the darkness,
buried in the pitch.
Must you quell the murmurous spirits,
the slandering multitude
the garrulous bobbing heads tossed upon the sea
where the one drowns the other.
Seed of my destiny.
Seed of eternity.
A mirror of youth
before the world broke the bridge
to the heralded ages.
But I am the quiet gardener,
and I am the silent hero.
There is a seed in the darkness …
an echo of the word not yet spoken.