Look at that picture on the wall
of the bronze -skinned Indian
he roamed the California hills until we came.
In his eyes a silent power
of the forest and the sea.
It burns free an d nothing bars it
from shining through his mind.
But now people come and go,
through this busy train depot
and they plunge themselves in chatter
instead of laughing water
and the men and women faces
bobbing on a stream of noise
still hold hints of forest silence
far behind their fearful features
And the listener in us all is surrounded by a crowd of rushing,
there's a swarm around the platform,
trains are leaving, we keep leaving,
but the listener in us all lingered
And sometimes don't you wake up
at the center of the night
An d you look up through a
And the air so clear your nostrils
And the stars you face take focus,
they come piercing into you
And the listener in you stands above
the crossbars an d the scars
You crouch under, taking cover
And he stands a scout of silence
In the folds of a greater silence
And you wonder what the rest was
And why you didn't notice
to this busy station room
Where the Indian's face peers down
from a forgotten frame of time
And the men and women's faces,
lobbing on a sea of noise
Still hold hints of forest silence
far behind their fearful features
And the listener that stands far
behind our plans and schemes
He has our dreams to feed on
Till we know, till we see he's ever waiting
4.7
