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In the world there is too much silence,
too much quietly uncaring
mechanical action —
    if I say what should be said,
    do what should be done,
    who is to say I am not a true friend?
Who can tell between time given out of duty
    and out of love?
Who can tell between words spoken,
if I mirror what you need to hear?
To be still
    is not to be silent.
    It's the pause at the top of the arc,
    the moment's meditation.
It's the self-contained will,
    the freedom from duty and obligation.
I move when I need to move,
    rest when I need to rest,
    love when I need to love.
And in the stillness of freefall,
    silence at the top of the world.
    Only, there is room for the pure cry,
    "I love you," to the empty hills,
    breaking the silence,
    daring the world to fall, to suffocate or freeze you.
Stillness waiting — and nothing happens.
Waiting, with unspoken words,
    unspoken devotion, to follow where this life will lead,
    not for the ground to hit,
    but for it to open.
There is no hesitance in waiting — only certainty
    and if both are waiting,
    hover in midair — we can fly.