On the brow of the hill, behind a silent chapel,
two windmills spin new soundscapes over
the land, cart-wheeling alleluias.
Cloistered granite holds an orchestration
of birds, and eerie whirr, tremulous sounds
of curlew and lapwing. The wind
through the metal gate is a speaking in tongues
with the broken feed-hoop tuning in:
other-worldly, intimately insistent.
All this music to attend to, to slip into:
an old organ droning, an uproarious lullaby.
Up over da hill, arms turn, the heart lifts.
The discipline of silence doesn't mean just taking a short vacation from the spoken word. It also means giving complete relaxation to the muscles, the tissues, the tongue itself. A modern writer once said: "Knowledge has never been known to enter the head via an open mouth." It is when you become completely silent that you are able to absorb knowledge. God speaks in silence. The discipline of silence is essential on the path.