One day or week, month or year
she stood upon the edge of time
and breathed, breathed in again,
the feel of something wonderful.
It sped through lungs, blood, muscles, skin,
till landing full and puffed up
in the middle of her heart
where it sang the song of angels.
So with this song tucked into heart
she turned to face the world of man
and, oh, the song disappeared
from the mind of one attuned. .
She mourns today; you know she does
the loss of something wonderful
and she asks again, again, again,
“Please sing again, again”.
And there is only silence, deadly, deadly silence,
but she lives her moments, minutes, years,
like one well versed and practiced
in the art of pretence.
She pretends that angels sing
and sing and sing again
somewhere in the middle
of each and every heart.
But do they sing? No they don’t
because we never hear a single note
and yet and yet perhaps ‘tis so
that angels sing and sing again
waiting, waiting, waiting,
for each and every one of us
to become attuned.
Perhaps she’s right, perhaps she’s wrong.
I don’t know. Do you?