My poems came back to me <br />as rhythms without sounds <br />Imitations of anothers music <br />Falling down and down <br />Like winter snow <br />To whitening ground- <br /> <br />My poems came back to me <br />As distant whispers of other destinies <br />Flights from deeper spaces <br />Mankind has not yet surmised <br />They were somewhere in the distance of distance <br />Beyond all distance <br />In the mystical language <br />Only Wisdom heard <br />Though it had no words of its own- <br /> <br />Only ‘now’ and ‘more’ and ‘dreams of another century’ <br />And I, I with all these confusing words <br />Wondering if my friend would ever be sane again <br />And why God does it this way <br />While I in my writing play and play again <br />Bringing my own rhythms back <br />And making poetry my own small happy game <br />Which I write and I write <br />Without memory.<br /><br />Shalom Freedman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-poems-came-back-to-me-as-rhythms-without-sounds/
