Healing

The words wash over me, cleansing, healing
Filling in the cracks and chips that time has made
Not one syllable do I know from a spoken language
Or at least that I have been taught by any man
But my soul accepts their soothing
It tells me I understand when I should not
And that it does not matter
For what are words but an expression of the soul
If the soul could not be heard in all dialects and none
In any language and many
We are alone all of us,  forever.
So I allow the ancient words of all our ancestors
To enter and teach me to be
Just to be still to quiet my mind

Ailsa
©AilsaCawley Poetry 2015

Author: ailsacawley

I have written since I can remember, devouring the stories of Roald Dahl under the covers by torchlight. I have always loved fairy tales, myths and magic. A good deal of the things I write has some truth in it. Others, not. I’m pleased you dropped by, please feel free to leave me a comment or if you’re kind enough to share that’s fine. ☺️ View all posts by ailsacawley