Within The Shadowedges Of The Light Poem by Madrason .

For those Who never sang a song.
For those no letter even read from alphabet.
For those who never moved some paint on Canvas,
a world was left eclosed in them,
a world from which we could enjoy,
did they not sing a song,
a silent song within the rain,
did they not offer tea in bed
at morning rise surprise us with some oranges
as if we were just born?

They don't have the courage from behind great names
nor need them to remind us.
Forth they live in every tiny branch
and all nature's silent gestures.
In Solomon's songs, but too in silence
they surely can be heard.
In a Rilke's commemoration Choir
or behind Hafiz' silky curtains,
or out of silenced hands from refugees
after the Burn they rise from circled ashes
in tender small curly rings, 'hear them sing! '

For those who never sang they could sing well.
I've never seen their faces but in the many lively traces
and windows on the way, I recognise their poems,
and forth I move with pride for them, for let us be true
-a moment silence- for the gems of mankind we suddenly find
within the shadowedges of the light.