He plays a tune on something inside him.
\nIt is not a harp or a drum,
\nit doesn\u2019t sing or clang.
\nIt in fact resides in perfect silence,
\nin a pure tonal harmony with quiet,
\nlike a flower nestled in the bud,
\na face obscured in sleep,
\nunder a blanket of inner dawns.<\/p>\n
It is composing,
\nor rather he is listening,
\nand in a heartbroken way,
\nin a joyous way,
\nin a stadium of fear
\nor a hall of pleading recurrence,
\nhis soul demands that he sing.
\nWithout hearing,
\nplay without notes,
\nwrite scores that are invisible
\nto the wind,
\nthat say to him,
\nyou do not know what you are.<\/p>\n
You do not hear yourself,
\nyour face does not appear
\nin the pool of a mirror,
\nbut you sing and I hear.
\nYou sing and they hear,
\nand someday
\nthe sad, deaf box of your heart will open,
\nand music will sound in you,
\nand the bells will ring,
\nand the sadness disappear forever,
\nreplaced by music.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
He plays a tune on something inside him. It is not a harp or a drum, it doesn\u2019t sing or clang. It in fact resides…<\/p>\n