Words

Words, just words;
Yet their very being
Cries of contact:
Deep, in the heart,
Symbolic events give
Imperishable meaning;
A long way here,
Illuminated by the
Pale light of a
Waning moon;
There, darkly shadowed
By a massive wall,
The pause of withdrawal
In the garden, only
To be pierced by a
Mysterious agony;
Like flaming torches
And the tread
Of many feet,
I hear a hurried mockery
Sickening into despair;
Their setting makes them
Vivid, and unforgettable,
Giving them an added
Urgency; as if something
Of the anguish was wrung
From praying lips, still
Clinging To my speech.