I’m walking down the street <br />and I hear the sculptor in his house <br />working on his statue of Krishna <br /> <br />and the chisel rings out on the stone <br />like a bell that wants to tell you something: <br /> <br />the stone saying, I am perfectly made for this; <br />the chisel saying, I am perfectly made for this; <br />the sculptor saying, this is prayer; <br /> <br />Krishna saying, I shall enter this. <br /> <br />And I hear in the sound of the chisel on the stone, <br />as sure as I know my own name, <br />that the sculptor is listening to all this too. <br /> <br />The bell-like sound lingers in the air <br />as if the air would keep it for ever <br />as the air’s prayer. It’s music. <br /> <br />The clearer the sound <br />of his striking chisel on stone, <br />the deeper the silence <br /> <br />as if sound and silence between them <br />know a secret: that sounds like this <br />can do anything in the world; <br /> <br />even call Krishna with their music <br />to play at being stone for us. <br /> <br />The stone’s laughing also: <br />playing at being Krishna. <br />They’re both laughing. <br />The sculptor is smiling too.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sound-of-silence-4/
