When the world around me speaks,
I try to listen, I try to understand.
I don’t speak much, though,
I don’t have much to say,
Whether you ask me how was my day,
How am I feeling,
Or why I do this or that in this or that way.
I do have thoughts and opinions of my own, you know,
Don’t we all?
But I’d rather write them down,
I’d rather think them through on paper.
Whenever I try to speak them aloud,
Words get lost on the way
From my brain to my tongue
Or else they come out
Strangely and unfamiliarly,
Curiosities of sound.
When I do speak, I am not sure
I understand myself.
I am not sure what I say
Or why I say it.
It’s as if someone else speaks in my place.
Silence can be a fault,
But spoken words, what are they?
The music life makes?
Noise of discord, noise of strife?
Ideas imperfectly expressed?
The cause of much misunderstanding?
Is not a hug more eloquent than any discourse?
Is not a smile, not a frown
More meaningful than any word?
Is not the language our body conveys
Clearer than the language of our tongues?
For my part I don’t say much,
I don’t have much to say.
I can only hope you understand
That silence itself is a way
To say what you have to say.