A HANDFUL OF dust could hide your signal when I did not know its meaning.
Now that I am wiser I read it in all that hid it before.
It is painted in petals of flowers; waves flash it from their foam; hills hold it high on their summits.
I had my face turned from you, therefore I read the letters awry and knew not their meaning.

THE UNSEEN dark plays on his flute
and the rhythm of light
eddies into stars and suns,
into thoughts and dreams.

THE MAN OF faith moves on along pitiless paths strewn with flints over scorching sands and steep mountainous tracks.
They follow him, the strong and the weak, the aged and young,
the rulers of realms, the tillers of the soil.
Some grow weary and footsore, some angry and suspicious.
They ask at every dragging step,
'How much further is the end?'
The Man of faith sings in answer;
they scowl and shake their fists and yet they cannot resist him;
the pressure of the moving mass and indefinite hope push them forward.
They shorten their sleep and curtail their rest,
they out-vie each other in their speed,
they are ever afraid lest they may be too late for their chance while others be more fortunate.
The days pass,
the ever-receding horizon tempts them with renewed lure of the unseen till they are sick.
Their faces harden, their curses grow louder and louder.