To whom do we owe language
Which so longs to become music
But must settle for fair meaning
Or a kind of dreaming with words
Each body in its own rhythm
Arms spread wide writing O
Some say it's from the birds
Whose music longed for language
But who invented singing instead
Before which there was only wind
And the silence of longing
But I think it's language itself
That is still creating everything else
The birds and us an early foot-note
No comments:
Post a Comment