The song of the angels

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?