Song Without Words
Song Without Words
Grasp the wooden violin, touch it, breathe it,
let its rich and velvety smoothness thrill you
tempt you, tease you, making you dream of playing;
hopes will not harm you.
Why can’t music transfer to words of beauty?
Can the cello’s tone be a color? Orange? Purple?
What would trumpets taste like if they were eaten?
How can I know this?
Listen to the cry of the oboe, calling
listeners, leading, drawing them to a slow march.
Only when the music has stopped do hearers
realize they’re dying.