How difficult seeing the truth is.
How lonely thinking the truth is.
How brave speaking the truth is.
And, how warm is the hand
Which is held out to people crying in the sad wind
Behind the lie.
How kind is the heart
Which accompanies people who cling to
The homeland in their hearts.
I gather this garment
Of silence about me,
Stillness that used to be
Threatening, its needles
Of fear lurking,
Probing wounds of my past scars to my psyche.
Now in the hands of Love
These needles have knitted
A silence so beautiful
That nothing
Can hurt. I draw skeins
Of silence with this healing garment about me,
As its stitches permeate
The crevices of my soul
Whispering, Peace.
Be still—and know:
Now all that would harm you
Is knitted to warm you.