You feel it hugs you,
It surrounds you, it envelops you,
Like the blanket of monks in prayer,
When it is cold in winter,
You feel immersed into it.
You cannot touch it,
Just you don’t miss anything
Or instead you miss everything.
You assimilate it to the Immensity:
When sitting on a vast deserted beach
Looking to the distant horizon line,
When walking on a mountain path
Looking to the distant snowy peaks,
When respectfully entering a monastery
Humbly feeling the need of spirituality.
Then you become intimate with yourself too:
With your ‘why’ and with your ‘because’
With your questions without answers,
With your doubts and with your hopes,
With your pains and with your joys,
With your tears and with your smiles.
And not all silences make the same sound:
Sometimes they melodiously rock,
Sometimes they powerfully hammer.
And not all silences have the same color:
Sometimes the blue transparence
Of the daylight and of the sky,
Sometimes the dark black
Of the gloom and of the night.
You love it and you hate it.
You know it touches you deeply inside,
As a friend or as an enemy,
It warms you or freezes you.
You have to learn to listen to it ;
It has to be enjoyed, not feared.
It is ‘the voice of complicity’.
Without making noise,
It will fill your mind and your heart ,
Your soul and your whole being
With the words of Poetry,
With the notes of Music,
With the colors of Painting,
With the shapes of Sculpture…
Where life becomes Art,
Into the silent Immensity.