in the melting of the candlelight

In the mist of the lonely hours,
in the melting of the candlelight,
in the aging of the night and in the seasoning of my soul,
I take my place in this other world, this nether world,
where the ancient thoughts from unknown realms,
half-whispered words not yet formed,
as a far-too-mortal human hand,
struggles to turn the echoes that have always been
into characters of ink upon a virgin page of mortal immortality.

As I sit in this amber-colored hush,
in the soft embrace of my sympathetic solitude
I can hear the faint scratchings of my fellow monks
in this vast scriptorium of souls,
giving anguished birth to thoughts far beyond the means of any written words.
They will all come short, they all will fail but they will try,
and they will try,
and they will try.

Why?
Because they must.
For they thought they heard-
Yes, that is it-
they thought they heard
another's voice,
That word that sometimes can be heard,
in the mist of the lonely hours,
in the melting of the candlelight,
in this aging of the night and in the seasoning of the soul.

The End

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