this voice

this voice
does not belong to me.

sometimes, it comes
from the mighty mountains
holding an audience
with the raging sun
and a swirling sky,
sometimes, it whispers
from the tips of leaves
glazed by the moistness
of coy winter dewdrops,
sometimes, it saunters in
with the daintiness
of devoted dragonflies,
smelling the faraway rain,
sometimes, it rides the waves
of a twisting ocean,
breaking its silence
over a placid shore,
sometimes, it slices the skin
of a hardened earth,
letting it bleed
into the black night,

yes, this voice
does not belong to me;
it belongs to the stillness
of a cosmos
that's alive
with the dead.