Was no more there, it vanished fair.
As it ought to, so snaily, so dim,
Fading away at the twilight's brim.
Not some, but many walked its thread,
In untailored ways, where silence led.
To find the depth of what it meant,
And shield their souls from sly intent.
The heights it gained, looked weak,
Feeble, plain, and soft to speak.
But therein lay its veiled might—
Not born in day, nor grown in night.
It was a process, slow and wide,
A swelling tide one could not guide.
It asked not much, just patience still,
And hearts prepared for time to fill.
Some felt it as a silent shore—
The deadly hush before the roar.
© Irfan Suhrawardy.
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