Sometimes
Sometimes when a bird calls out in the night,
Or the wind flows through the branches,
Or an owl hoots in the distance,
Then I become very quiet and listen.
My spirit drifts back in time,
Back hundreds of years forgotten now.
The bird, wind and owl were similar.
My brother of that time listened, too.
Listening, my soul is the bird, wind and owl…
A cloud stream flowing in time…
Strangely changed, carried back.
I ask myself: How can this be?
There is no answer…my brother is silent,
Listening to the bird, the wind and the owl.
He does not know me, nor I him.
We are quiet then and now…listening.
Carlos Sc.
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