Deep down where reason cannot reach
The curious in you begins to speak,
The true man with his soft, gray voice,
The true man with his penchant for mysteries.
The questions he has are not bred for logic.
They cannot be calculated or controlled.
They cannot be named, numbered, or announced.
They concern such things as the longing of the
The insoluble riddle of the sea,
The moon, which shines so sadly
But never weeps.
They do not concern the “You” you think you
Or the “I” I think I am,
Not even the names we name the world.
They neither impart nor demonstrate,
Fill your head full of knowledge
Nor empty you to the core.
The true man, with his mouthful of questions,
Urges you only to ask:
How morning can come so softly
When the sun is so immense?
What is it that shines in sidewalks after rain?
What force really stops
A tear from lifting off the table,
Or a wounded heart