I have searched the world,

the deep oceans of great minds,

to find this word--

a word without a tongue--

and if you know it, 

please tell it to me,

and I will speak it till my lungs give way,

and my lips become like the desert floor,

and the earth dissolves,

and falls into itself,

and utterly fades away.

How can I begin to say?

 

So full and heavy is the peace

that you must grip your chest,

for fear that your heart might burst or shrivel away;

and yet, it is a terrible emptiness

that makes you want to drain your empty eyes,

and heave your heart up your throat,

lie face-down on the ground,

melt into the soil,

and travel with the dust. 

Yes, that is what it makes you:

as small as a speck of dust.

 

For the first time in your vain existence,

you are content with just being dust. 

But a Bright Shadow towers over you

(who is really the Dust Breather),

and gives you a little crown to fit your head,

and reign over a finite realm,

and a flock of dust sheep

to nurture as your own.

 

It is not His lavish treasures

that bring your jaw to a humble fall,

But it is the golden words that run out like a fountain

for your to catch on your tongue,

filling the cracks of your heart,

so that your heart may become solid and whole,

roaring with the ferocity of a lion. 

You find that you are able to laugh with this frightening figure,

and play with him,

and roll all around him,

and touch his divine hair,

while feasting on his words,

like a golden wind. 

How could it be?

 

When it it time to leave,

he gently shoos you away onto a battlefield,

giving you a ring of hope,

which cannot be separated from your finger.

But it is not the battle that terrifies you so,

it is the bland world you must face;

it is the fear that you will forget the taste of serenity,

just as you forgot your vanity long ago.

 

And this is the sharpest part of the description:

it is your not wanting to leave,

your wish to stay forever in the bright shadow,

your eagerness to abandon your feasts and thrills,

and what other measly joys you once knew,

to follow the sun that rises over the crystal waters

on the golden peaks of that high mountain.

 

Yes, there ought to be a word for this. 

Either I will find it 

in some obscure book on earth or in heaven,

or I will labor to create a word for it,

until I find that 

Words fail me.