I know what I look for, but not where I go
know what I discern but not what I grow
there’s in a longing and whisper something that explains and don’t have an answer
there are no ways and means of finding what is looked after
sought as a confused track behind without proving that everything is close
a journey that never started but quietly reached an end
searching for the calling evokes a path
but where it’s possible to find is not written yet
seeking a cabinet
with no trace in the dust
sees but fumles through the haze
like a sword that cuts through the fog and leaves something behind
looking
without understanding the sentence.
