It is oh so, oh so quiet now, like an evening song
a lullaby which is sung while watching, watching
the earthen womb and the rising and setting of it
For all rhymes are hymns to the humming sounds
but it's the offkey of it which cometh out of us
for every glance is made into a miracle with it.
But in time we all but forgot for we wanted more -
more than the hours of the days, nights, twilights
more than the years and lifetimes which passed.
Yet we are only seconds and minutes in eternity
even for the calculations of time, measurements
of the weights and scales are we still like children.
For they force what cannot be forced through it
to create myths and legends, but all was forgot
it cometh when it shall ; it cometh, it cometh.
Like this song which is born from the melodies,
the intonations, and fluctuations, the delicate
touch on strings to close eyes and dream away.
Then peak through our eyelids to see the infant
which was born from it - it is but a song we sung
but it's ours, it's ours to raise, to show, to teach.
For we are like parents now; but children to it
for it is smaller than us. Let us not force it then
for it falls into place when it needs to instead. |
