Bathed in the soft, gentle luxury

of mystical, vibrating music;

That caresses me safe

Like the rhythmic warmth

of my mother’s heart

and the perpetual rustling breezes

of her murmurring lungs,

with only the slightest whisper

of that far-off oneday land;

I strive and suffer here

to take my time.

My hesitating mind stops and it starts.

It is not my mind.

I do not think, nor am I thought.

I could think.

And the dimensions and the space

and the union,

                    could be felt

And known.

And of all the intimations and the dreams

I have felt from yes to no.

I live in the starlight of that

somewhy star,

In that special vague place where words begin.

And I know

that I have not yet been born.

© 1976  by  James L. Anderson


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