All day I quake — though reason bids me cease
All day I quake — though reason bids me cease,
As though my soul were bound and robbed of peace;
And through the night, in wine half-drowned, I lie,
Not dead — yet longing something there to die.
Beyond the frame where mortal sights belong,
I drift where light forgets its ancient song;
And I, unfastened from the thread of name,
Dissolve like thought no memory can reclaim.
I watch for dawn — that pale, reluctant grace,
To lay soft mercy on the darkened place;
Yet deeper still, beneath all hope of sight,
There breeds a dark no dawn has power to smite.
O Death — thou art no puzzle to unfold,
But silence where all restless thoughts grow cold;
No grief for time, nor love that slipped away,
But dread of that no tongue may dare to say.
It comes not clad in thunder, nor in cries,
But like a breath that neither fades nor dies;
Not pain, nor loss, nor life’s extinguished breath —
But that which waits beyond the name of death.
A hollow vast, where neither face nor form
May rise, nor leave the faintest, fleeting norm;
Where none remain to suffer, speak, or be —
And even void forgets its vacancy.
We walk as one — yet each apart must roam,
No path unmarked, no turning leading home;
Where “nothing left” no longer strikes as fear,
But falls as truth — severe, exact, and clear.
What shield have we? What prayer may bar the gate?
What fragile creed withstands so mute a fate?
Religion — but a trembling mortal art,
A silken veil upon a breaking heart.
And he who swears the mind should never shake
Before the void no waking sense can take —
Hath never stood where silence strips the soul,
And leaves no self remaining to be whole.
Where none remain to carry name or flame,
No love to bind, no memory to claim;
Where all dissolves in something vast, unknown,
That utters not — yet claims us as its own.
It waits beyond the margin of our breath,
A quiet bruise upon the glass of death;
A pulse undone, that severs every thread
Of meaning life so tenderly has bred.
And this — of all — shall find thee, soon or late,
Unhurried, still… indifferent as fate;
And in that depth where all things are unmade,
Each inner note resounds — yet none are played.
All day I quake — though reason bids me cease,
As though my soul were bound and robbed of peace;
And through the night, in wine half-drowned, I lie,
Not dead — yet longing something there to die.
Beyond the frame where mortal sights belong,
I drift where light forgets its ancient song;
And I, unfastened from the thread of name,
Dissolve like thought no memory can reclaim.
I watch for dawn — that pale, reluctant grace,
To lay soft mercy on the darkened place;
Yet deeper still, beneath all hope of sight,
There breeds a dark no dawn has power to smite.
O Death — thou art no puzzle to unfold,
But silence where all restless thoughts grow cold;
No grief for time, nor love that slipped away,
But dread of that no tongue may dare to say.
It comes not clad in thunder, nor in cries,
But like a breath that neither fades nor dies;
Not pain, nor loss, nor life’s extinguished breath —
But that which waits beyond the name of death.
A hollow vast, where neither face nor form
May rise, nor leave the faintest, fleeting norm;
Where none remain to suffer, speak, or be —
And even void forgets its vacancy.
We walk as one — yet each apart must roam,
No path unmarked, no turning leading home;
Where “nothing left” no longer strikes as fear,
But falls as truth — severe, exact, and clear.
What shield have we? What prayer may bar the gate?
What fragile creed withstands so mute a fate?
Religion — but a trembling mortal art,
A silken veil upon a breaking heart.
And he who swears the mind should never shake
Before the void no waking sense can take —
Hath never stood where silence strips the soul,
And leaves no self remaining to be whole.
Where none remain to carry name or flame,
No love to bind, no memory to claim;
Where all dissolves in something vast, unknown,
That utters not — yet claims us as its own.
It waits beyond the margin of our breath,
A quiet bruise upon the glass of death;
A pulse undone, that severs every thread
Of meaning life so tenderly has bred.
And this — of all — shall find thee, soon or late,
Unhurried, still… indifferent as fate;
And in that depth where all things are unmade,
Each inner note resounds — yet none are played.
So in that void where even echoes fail,
Where thought grows thin and every meaning pale,
I hear — as though all things were overthrown —
That Silence…
louder than all worlds that have been known.
With gratitude and silence,
“Between Thoughts”
Zohar Leo Palffi de Erdöd
