With what stillness at lastyou appear in the valleyyour first sunlight reaching downto touch the tips of a fewhigh leaves that do not stiras though they had not noticedand did not know you at allthen the voice of a dove callsfrom far away in itselfto the hush of the morningso this is the sound of youhere and now whether or notanyone hears it this iswhere we have come with our ageour knowledge such as it isand our hopes such as they areinvisible before usuntouched and still possible