Listening to Arvo Part

I hear the notes fall like snowflakes

soft and pure

and perfect.

Where does this peace come from?

This rest, this light, this beauty?

Surely it is born of the human ache

for freedom and transcendence.


It all comes from wound, they say

Every bit of real art has its birth in blood.


These strains

These melodies

These harmonic tones

Are the dances of angels

The call of sirens

echoes of the songs of heaven


Filling the heart

with every thought

of love

and surprise

and satisfaction

and delight.


Why hasn’t some government tried to suppress this?

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