Reading on a rainy evening

The hours went. Since I was sitting still,

I listened to the rain’s uneven sounds,

as if it answered to the wind’s remark.

My book was dark.

It’s pages were like faces, those, in passing,

we’ve seen and lost, dissolved to thoughtfulness.

Around my book time slurred, accumulated

and words, now vague, in shadows, would express

the evening and dusk and nothingness.

I did not read on. Slowly, lines got broken

and words fell off, pearls from a silken thread,

rolled far away, wherever they must go,

I knew it then, when darkness further spread.

Above the words and thoughts about unspoken

some blooming gardens heavenwards would grow.

Sun showed itself for one more time before

all separated things met one another fast

like blacked-out people on a lonely shore.

And strangely so, as if it was important,

a last harsh sound of a shut-closing door.

When I put down my book, it seemed to me

I knew all things around me, as inside,

without a border, nothing in between

but limitless, such understanding seen

as unison in one and everything. 

Earth grew 

and covered the whole sky with stars,

and I, among them, lifted off and flew.