The quiet javelin in flight,
Brisk, between earth and earth,
Plummets forth without sight,
Paragon, between death and birth,
Slices of air made for the soil,
Brushes of velvet and thread,
Soaring eagle-like, effortless toil,
We watch and are dissolved.
Filtered we stand, as if the fog,
Had entered the real world,
And transformed our hand,
To still be with the wonder held,
Try, if you will, if you dare,
Unfasten the peace that lies within,
Set it free to kiss the air,
Be unto thyself a Javelin.