MUSIC IN SEARCH OF A SONG
When I move
I create the past:
Leaves in the summer wind
Or a bird calling somewhere
From far, far away across the sun-browned meadows,
Calling for things and seasons to come
And closing and opening, opening and closing
The old destinies of worlds foretold
Shaped and preserved by ashes and streams.
But how long can one hold the hills close to his heart
Or laugh like a child in the face of the impassive sea?
Crumbs of time stolen from eternity’s high table
Constitute my fortune. Fleeting as her smile,
A woman’s momentary ember
Forges the firmament beneath my feet.