the blowing wind
Sometimes when a bird cries out,
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in 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?
Sometimes When A Bird Cries Out by Hermann Hesse.
About this entry
You’re currently reading “the blowing wind,” an entry on the alchemy of pilgrimage
- Published:
- May 26, 2010 / 4:18 am
- Category:
- camino de santiago, pilgrimage, soulwork
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