Tell me your story,
so different from mine.
In the morning mist,
In the rising sun.
When you stand so still,
I have only words
to tell my stories,
and you do not have my words,
on your own words,
your own language,
which I can never know.
God, grant me the humility
to accept what I do not know,
and cannot hear,
but can only feel,
if I shed my arrogance
and learn to listen
So I can hear your story.