There are no words.  The air, as thin as lines
composed of quintessential distant dreams,
is probably the path, devoid of signs,
which flows beside the quintessential streams.
There are no words.  The path, the streams converge.
A prophecy of silence draws me in.
Surrender is the quintessential urge
that marks the end where thus I can begin.
The words that form are beautiful and bright,
like pearls and diamonds strung on silver thread.
They sparkle in the quintessential night,
that quintessential darkness overhead.
And in the quiet birth of every word
a hint of quintessential faith is heard.

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