The world whispered
its way in: cricket-speech
in the late afternoon, the drift of
golden leaves upon the still-green grass,
clouds softened by their under-sides
of gray.

Sink, it said, without saying.

We enfold you, we welcome you,
we do not reject: statesman
or hero, peasant or complete unknown—
you are ours.

We accept all: poisoners, prisoners,
and all the accursed;
those whose angers collapse cities and states—
all beasts that rage against the night.

We are your lost home,
your refuge from yourselves.

We await you with all the beloveds:
those innocent and blameless,
those whose hearts grew great in compassion;
loving men, beautiful women,
all the living and the dead,
becoming in the end our Earth,

changing the rock, the stone,
the winds and air themselves
into the creation of them all—
bell, harp, and choir—
whose only song is Love.