a cry

there is a cry
flies through drifting dream
and solidities
touches down in some hearts
though unknowing
becomes as one with secrets
shuffles off the skin of the soul
exposing some fashion of truth
this, too, unknowable
as all truths, mystery
and the cry, a pure song
passes from mouth to mouth
like a kiss, innocent
makes you want to go, to go
as if you forgot along the way
how to fly, not in dreaming
and wondering
as if no one had ever wondered
no one had ever heard
the beauty in sadness
our eyes too teary
to see any of it
that the house of wisdom
is a house of mourning
and the cry, so plain
like yesterday
why have you forsaken me?