Photo by S. Auberle
Sometimes, when a bird cries out,
or the wind sweeps through a tree,
or a dog howls on a far-off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.
My world turns and goes back to the place
where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
the bird and the blowing wind
were like me and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree
and an animal, and a cloud bank,
then, changed and odd, it comes home,
and asks me questions. What should I reply?
- Herman Hesse