When life seems like a shimmer fading, falling all around —
not my life or your life, but the life that’s like a sound:
at once it echoes, then it’s softer, feeling louder all the same,
reverberating off the Earth; each sound is like a game.
A game that’s far too distant, far too fast, then gone away;
the rules that seemed so simple, over time, seem to decay.
What we know we are is wasted by the things we wished we knew;
then all the sounds see fit to mimic equal sounds of just a few.
So are we pieces in a song of just ideals leading true,
or do we write our own songs — just a noise, and nothing new?
For within the clamored outcries of the random ringing noise
there exists a glint and glimmer, barely seen: a flashing voice.
It burns within the melody and screams above the rest
in hard, pervading whispers, ever freeing the oppressed.
No words describe its forming; an idea can’t be named —
instead it’s sought by every sound, all seeking their own claim.
One can’t bind a blowing breeze by way of strength or intellect;
to grasp a gleaming concept in one’s hands is to reflect.
For it is only in reflection that we ever truly see
that the voice that spoke inside our sounds was, all along, the key.