Movement
Movement, the fruit of stagnation,
When all is quiet and lifeless,
When all is a bird with the spirit of flying,
Locked inside a cage with metal locks,
Whose heart belongs to the open skies,
Who longs for the day to flap its wings,
The emancipation of the incarcerated,
Like beauty locked up
Inside a narrow prison
With its face away from the light,
Or of music housed inside and ancient tomb,
Searching for a place to breathe,
To find a paradise to roam around in,
To lift it up into a song as it
Flounders around on the ground,
To breathe life into it and watch it move,
To lead it to its greener pastures,
To hold it dear against the heart
As the maestro moves it with his baton,
Dancing with his lyrical arms,
Playing with the pleasure of sound,
Feeling its pulse through each motion,
Feeling the joy and the sorrow,
The passion and the pounding waves,
The softening of the fury of the tempest,
The silent interludes and scented air,
The stillness but the enchantment of it,
The air between two lovers,
The thrill of the calm in poetic form,
The language of the spirits,
The movement of the music,
And the mood it conveys.
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