Like a fragile butterfly crossing an abyss,
the voice born in speech,
that dies in silence,
clings to existence,
with endless comment.
exhausted and fearful,
expending endless effort,
to pronounce its self in to existence,
to fend off its extinction:
the eternal absence of its presence.
but the object of speech,
that would dot the endless stretch of silence,
like the intermitten beating of fragile wings,
are effortlessly registered,
by that which recieves all information,
and which is not itself, information:
the true subject: that is no object.
The fear is unnecessary:
a case of mistaken identity.
For we are that being,
effortless and eternal,
that never born never dies,
and the voice, that like the butterfly,
strains its wings to stay alive,
can better come to rest,
in the immortal vastness
of its silent being,
and watch its love sing,
like a butterfly carried in the wind.