I’m waiting:
waiting for freedom, for a spectacular burst.
I’ll know its appearing, though all I know now is the thirst.
Just a distant echo now, but how could not the symphony be grand?

Yes, I keep on waiting:
waiting for a new dream, a new higher plane.
My ladder is too short, my imagination too small, too sane,
but I’ve craned my neck way back and far outstretched my hand.

I’m waiting; I’m anticipating.
Who wants to know why? Who can say how long?
I wait for you. Exhausted, but still I’ll go on singing your song:
“Faint not. I come! like rest to a body, like voice for a melody, like rain for dry land.”