How did I ever think silence the language of love?
What I thought would not come to light was in plain sight.
What I thought would not come to light was in plain sight.
I hear my silence talked of in every lane;
The suppression of a cry is itself a cry of pain.
The beloved’s regard was but a flash of light;
How innocent to think I’d found eternal bliss.
These, too, in the end were the gardener’s: the lightning and the wind
And that handful of pitiful straws I’d called my nest.
Darshan, the glances I’d fancied voiced my love —
Even they couldn’t convey the unplumbed depths of my longing.