pure pulsing wood conjuring
falling chimes, glass rims whistling
mallet games eagerly tap until
a breath, almost, then a chord –
swells of brilliant colors
begin to flutter in all directions
humans emerge from the landscape
pensive, but not exactly still
the drum fights the tall, arching sonorities
the winds submit to the metal scrapes,
time enough for a dark thing to be said,
they regain their place, preparing for the end, or another beginning
out of the rustle emerges a cry, beyond pain or pleasure
simple proof of terrestrial existence
No comments:
Post a Comment