Feel the silence.
The fields are asleep, the city remains. Men lay on their beds holding women that breathe slowly. Women dream of lonely shores in the bed sheet. Listen to this: When you let the noise of the streets, the voices of people living their lives, the chant of trees and forests go, What do you hear? Are these words a pulsation in your lips? Would you break the peace of this hour?

These words are not spoken words. Are open windows for you to hear, but only if don’t look, only if you stand still and let the echo of the silence come in.

These words are not open windows. Are calm after storms that never arrived to your street. Are the serenity of fresh roads that washed the town away.

These words are not the calm after the storm. They talk about themselves. They talk to you about themselves. What would they say?

How do words remain on us? Will you open your hand and let words soar away? Will you look at me slowly before saying my name?

My hands gently stroke the night.

Here the secrets are kept, voices are shut, our images are cleansed.
In this silence all time arrives, all memories take place, all desires are met.
Names unravel from the soul.
Men become God.