THE MUSIC



Swelling into the realm of a majestic,
Echoing out into space,
Thunderstorm swaying the grass on some old rustic
Burial mound ;
Bringing dim ----
Long past dream.


Dramatic eyes share their bounty ;
The Ear reposes its faith.
Along does its partner in gaith.
Impressions carried away in aplenty.


What a picture of colour
These two Epithets call up !
Looking for improvisation
The very soul that enrapture.


Would be a blasphemy---
Just as passes no one, that blind
And handicapped beggars – without
Throwing them a cropper, kind.


Deep silence. Not even the sound of drop
Of the dew on the leaf.
Practicing warble, not a dirge
Showering a bliss of solitude, drinking binge
Abound. Oh, mi Lord
From His gentle Abode.
People versed in matters of this kind
Complete absolutions in the Other world bind
Joyous clamour of its bell
The Church echoes ‘the fame of the travail’
Of the Father’s miracle all we avail.


A new wound opened with,
As the newest ‘note’ came bright.
Mobile, sparkling
Clamour of life’s being.
Revealing a wound in its compelling power
Distinct came out ! more and more.
Wisps like solemn,
Unrestrained, yet sinking calm.


But the chants and the chants bore away,
As the last note died away
Soul-rendering. Tears of the crimson tide
Myriad faces she did bide.


And she reposed : “I’ve not lived in vain.”
And the message bore thick and thin .
Black night set against bright day
Apalling profundity, truth gay.
Every heart trembled with the gong,
As though a thunderbolt broke over the thong.




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