The Word is mighty

The word is mighty,
of this I have no doubt,
though it is but the sound

of the immortal spring that flows with life only,

not with life and death,

to which, when thirsting,

I repair and drink.

The mind has ears

for what it cannot think

as it would join its syllables to breath.

I quiet sit

astride its wanderings

in restoration

never reasoned out.

Some the word as weapon,

some as spade apply,

or verbal idol lavished with applause,

or bait the trap

between themselves and fate.

Some weaken what is strong,
some fortify the feeble or manipulate the laws,

and I,

I listen,

slake my thirst, and wait.