The Stirring
Beneath the sky’s cerulean sweep, where wild winds braid the trees,
A child of dust with dream-filled eyes stood restless in the breeze.
His life, a soul not yet made whole, was drawn to far-off lands,
Where moonlight pooled in secret glades and silence held the sands.
He wandered through the gloaming vale, past rivers limp and wide,
In shadows on pearlescent waves where angels seemed to glide.
He asked the stars to guide his way, the spheres to light his path,
But they, in silent mockery, just shimmered as they laughed.
Then on the heights where winds of time dissolve in clotting mist,
He found no thunderous trumpet blast, no searing seismic shift,
But only hush – a sacred hush – a stillness sharp and deep,
Where all creation bowed in awe, and no one dared to speak.
And there – a voice – not loud nor proud, but softer than the rain,
That falls on dry and withered ground to draw forth life again.
It spoke not judgment, thunder, fire, nor visions vast and wild,
But called him gently by his name, the name he bore as child.
Then all the world fell soft and still; the fear, the wonder passed.
His soul, once splintered by the storm, was found and formed at last.
No longer lost, he knelt and wept within his Lord’s embrace,
And felt, within that numinous hush, the warmth of sacred grace.
So now he walks the sunlit lands, where grief and glory meet,
A bearer of the stillness deep as peace directs his feet.
He knows the voice that calls him home is not in wind or wave,
But in the whisper on the Breeze, the still small voice that saves.
© Johannes W H van der Bijl 2025
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