Silent song, the air with no obstruction,
nothing to bend it, to shape it, to embellish it,
to color it, to make it sing,
a river without a bank, without a name,
a story without a plot, a poem without a tear,
a harp with no strings, a trumpet with no valves,
air left alone with no guide to steer it,
pleading for a something to run up against,
a wall, an opponent, a raging river in between,
an embodied angel to impede its wayward running
and pass it on to another obstruction
to anoint it, bend it, give it another color,
another pitch, another language, another volume,
breathing more life into it to keep it going,
air into wind into tunnels into obstacles,
into gilded walls, into heavenly pistons,
cranking out psalms to the glory of music,
chanting canticles inside hidden cathedrals,
consecrating the new air outside the tunnel,
out of the bell of the hallowed trumpet,
wind & melody, a heavenly mixture,
a conversion of air into a sound of beauty,
a passing through sacred obstacles to get there,
but the air that needs a wind
that needs a hurdle to pass over
for its melodic shaping
so to land in a paradise of sound.