Poetry 'n Prose

From the Ancient Arena

Once hearing music, I thought: a man or woman made this
And once there was a time before its pattern was
Before its form or harmonies had ever been conceived
Out of flesh and its travails, out of the labour of hands

And before that, a time when not one single quaver of it
Had been the slenderest shadow, less than a shadow
Lying dark, until it was shaped, crafted and nourished into light,

And she no angel but human to the core, who made it
For you, for me and that we might see clear through it
Build our own work upon it, and by our willing love
Transform our world, that through us
Matter be known and resplendent as music.

And with these thoughts, I rejoice to be in its history
To be alive in its time, my time is now his or hers
And yours too, as you hear this, which is the time
To you and me, in our times, that the maker of music reached out
And we here humanly touched, and moved to hear this.

By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

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