Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stack- still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us now.
My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neithr sleeps, nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open, sees far-off things, and listens at the shore of the great silence.
