The Landscape's Mute Chord

A giant of rock, a mute sculptor,
weaves its pattern not only with air and light.
But a subtle boundary, a secret thickness,
where is the wind’s song that calls itself back?
The shepherd’s pace, the whistle of the train,
dissipate, unheard, within its bosom.

Here, the echo is an absence, a hidden voice,
the fabric of noise grows rare, almost denied.
Every sound is a glimmer, a distorted shard,
which the mountain mass, indifferent, carries
away from perception, spreads a dense veil,
and to the world’s clamor lights a pause.

It is a forced peace, an emptiness that sounds,
the mountain’s mute chord, which every uproar intones
to a minor register, to a sharper silence.
Where the world’s loud cry has been lost,
it is found that absence holds a deep harmony,
a breath of the cosmos answering to the quiet.