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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