Ode to silence

Each word is incomplete, 
just an abstract, broken fragment born of 
thoughts arising in the mind. 
And the mind itself a grainy fragment 
of the overall consciousness,
Words are mere grains of sand,
With sandgrains we try to make castles, 
huge castles that we cast in pursuance 
of the ever-missing meaning of life, 
And then the sand slips, 
we go for awkward flips. 
Words are mere broken arrows,
How will one even win a battle with broken arrows?
Words are mere sparks, 
temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence,
They just give a little flash of light around our feet 
as we grope in the darkness,
seeking a way out of our puzzles. 
Words are mere temporary twinklings 
on the vast canvas of silence,
They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, 
their own meaninglessness 
behind all the meanings ascribed to them,
And the moment we listen to their story, 
we arrive at the moral of the final story,--
The moral of their story is silence;
Silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. 
As I write this, 
huge rumblings of megh naad, 
the rumblings of clouds, 
buzz across my head:
A booming cosmic storm 
that chucks out the outer shell of words, 
crushes the stones to spread the sand 
to go flying with the winds, 
The words getting sucked into 
a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy, 
And beyond that silence, stillness and emptiness.