There is, deep under the dull roar of life,
beneath the mad world’s wild cacophony,
hidden in between the rhythmic heartbeats
of progress, ever advancing onward,
a small quiet voice that softly whispers,
so fragile that even a feather breeze
can drown it out, so meek that even ears
not deafened by noise can barely hear it.
You may have heard it, too, and thought perhaps
it was but a dream; just one tiny word
repeated over and over again.
To listen for that sole word, that wee voice –
finding time to hear it is called prayer.
So much depends on that little word, yes.
10 JAN 2003