Unrung Bell

I. Forged Silence

In a furnace of patience,
bronze becomes melted memory—
ore drawn from dark veins,
forged in the gorge of impermanence.

Each hammerbeat molds intention;
flame licks the cusp of silence.
Metal softens toward surrender,
its glow rehearsing stillness.

Hands withdraw from the heat,
letting the fire have its moment.
Each strike births an echo;
each pause cools into reverence.

Now the bell, quiet and resting,
holds its ghost in shadow—
a hollow body of endurance,
awaiting the bell’s first, yet final, chime.

II. The First Toll

A carved beam swings parabolic through still air,
its path slow, practiced, inevitable.
The bell awaits its own silhouette,
listening for the silence of motion.

Then—contact.
A burst of bronze expands,
and the world hears its tremble.
Light quivers alone upon the pond.

Each chime unwinds its origin,
folding distance into instant.
Mountains pause their avalanche of thought;
moss recalls its green.

When the bong finally recedes,
emptiness fills its shape.
Sound dissolves its own dissolution;
prayer prays as it rejoins the air.

III. Echo Sutra

After the chime, the moment remembers.
Each ripple triples the scripture,
penned on visible breath,
then erased by the west wind.

Leaves murmur pure commentary,
translating vibration into shade.
Even the penumbra chants in silence,
its circle spiraling mid-verse.

Now bells no longer matter—
each mouth closed in prayer.
Meaning migrates to hearing,
as the listener hears glistening sound.

Soon nothing repeats everything.
The echo teaches forgetting.
What was heard remains unsaid—
yet silence knows each syllable.

IV. Return to Stillness

Now the bells hang in weightless grace,
their bronze greened by midday.
What once was motion returns to repose—
silence slays the violence of hustle.

Wind brushes the lip of absence,
but no reply will comply.
Only the hush of recalled ringing,
a memory folded inside itself.

Shadows lengthen in patient accord;
the garden listens to its own hush.
Time loosens its tightened chord,
and dusk becomes its only hymn.

Within this vacuum, the heart resolves—
a temple left unstruck.
It hears the fear of echo,
and recalls the fall of autumn that harbingers winter.