sometimes

sometimes, when a bird cries out,

or the wind sweeps through a tree,

or a dog howls in a far off farm,

i hold still and listen a long time.

my soul turns and goes back to the place

where, a thousand forgotten years ago,

the bird and the blowing wind

were like me, and were my brothers.

my soul turns into a tree,

and an animal, and a cloud bank.

then changed and odd it comes home

and asks me questions. what should i reply?

hermann hesse