Fog appears on the road.
A silence encompasses the land.
No past, no future, only present,
Only now, is at hand.
On the path are many travelers.
All traveling through time and space.
Floating along their pathless paths,
As pale shadows fill this place.
Walking, but not walking.
Clothed, but not clothed.
Smiling, but not smiling.
Dreams within a dream.
Talking, but not talking.
Weeping, but not weeping.
Dancing, but not dancing.
Dreams within a Dream.
On the path are many travelers.
Coming to restore this sacred place.
Wielding staffs of silvern light,
To live again in grace.
Fog rises from the road.
A silence encompasses the land.
No past, no future, only present,
Only now, is at hand.
– Roger Allen Baut
© 2012, poem, Roger Allen Baut, All rights reserved; the Sitting Bull’s photograph is in the public domain and archived at the U.S. Library of Congress
The BeZine 
The mind siliences itself as it slowly reads this meditative poem. Beautifully done, Roger, and well considered.
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You give a hauntingly beautiful voice to the ghosts, Roger. Thank you for sharing.
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