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Chapter 25: Silence Is Always Louder than Any Scream


Would you say this is not love?
For behind the tears of absence
is a serene memory
as a constant presence in my center
always, always in the center
of my heart, of my feet,
all the directions of the earth,
the words and the silences,
the embraces and the songs,
but most of all
in the center of my sorrowing smile
sometimes pained with rage.

So would you say this is not love?
Because I shout: “You bastards!”
For I cannot accept in silence or with joy
that they gag your mouth
and they fetter your feet.

Would you say this is not love?
The divine rage that screams within me
singing its furious song
for the thousands and thousands of hearts
who would have loved to meet you
but are hindered by boundaries of fear,
by bureaucracy, passports and masked manners.

Would you say if I could ask you
my eternal question
that I do not love you?
Because I feel to scream to them
that I love you, I love you,
and because I want them all to love you,
to be free
to love you and to meet you
under every tree,
in every country,
on every street around the earth,
and because I wish for every wretch
you could reach out your hand
or your infinite silence.

I would be dead by now
forgotten of myself
if I had not met you.
And so I weep for all of those
who died in forgetfulness
of their own soul
without having met you.
And again and again I scream:
“You bastards!”
into the faces of those
who try to chain you close
in order to keep you
from the thirsty and the lost.

So would you say this is not love?
For the scream is louder still
than the silence.
For the heart is turmoil and the rage
whets the intelligence
like a sword to cut the chains,
to cut the heads of the parasites,
and to open a door
for intuition to enter.

I cannot take this any more,
the fear and the meanness of those who decide
what is right and what is wrong.
Nor the fear of those who are afraid
of the songs,
of the dance,
of the music that springs up
when a living being
meets you.
So, oh, my love, would you say
this is not love?

Sarjano, I am reminded of a beautiful statue of Gautam Buddha, which was sent to me from Japan by a friend. It was no ordinary statue; it was the samurai conception of Gautam Buddha. In one of his hands was a burning torch and in the other hand was a naked sword. And the beauty and the strangeness of the statue was this: that half of his face was lighted by the torch - serene, silent, peaceful; and the other side of his face had the same sharpness as the sword he was holding in his hand.

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