Sound knows not what it does,
But makes itself, of itself, simply available -
It is heard and gone -
And to us who hold the key
We remain its servants.
And thus we must learn
To know sound,
To know its truths, its lies.
This vessel holds the liquid -
Gold and lead combined, and yet,
It needs to be so refined.
This container, this chalice for our souls,
In sacred setting lets
Deep slumbers stir -
Comes to us, unasked for,
In unopened quiet
Hears the tides uprising,
Agrees to move.
These deep slumbers, stirred by vibration,
Appear from the skeletons of our mind imprints.
They upheave themselves and almost drag us to them,
Sometimes gasping, sometimes weeping,
And then again with so much recognition
Of the burning, soul-full, return home,
That we bow,
We bow.
And how,
In these few days, we reached that place
I cannot really see,
Except to say, its good Alchemy.
The joining in community
Of Beings greatly blessed
Who have travelled their path of
Music, with intent.
To reach beyond the desert of their
Lonely ears,
To resubmit,
To unlearn once again.
It is this unlearning
That cannot be taught!
It waits,
To be invited.
And perhaps that is the listening
we seek -
To hear, and then invite,
The waiting murmers
In each other.
Those seeds, which over-burdened with
Life, pop, in a spring of new beginings.
Some shoot, some crawl, some burst
Others need careful cultivation.
These ways of sound,
They generate the garden.
They generate the garden.
Oh seeds! Oh fragile plants!
We tiny people,
Exploding from the earth,
Each one a gem of gems, alone.
How can we honour,
With full decorum -
Each shaping stem,
Each arching branch?
The forest floor holds
All the roots.
And that is where we go.
Go, to the forest floor,
And tangle down together. |
