The rhythms have been set
in the distant blast, light years past
we knew the cadence of a jerking crust
even tempos in the swell of lava underneath
harmonious undulations of liquefied iron ore
mixed precisely in the inner core
the lyrics waters murmur condensing
in the atmosphere or trickling from a spring
voices of surging or ebbing seas
-- pulses of the earth once converged in
our infant soul.
But our pompous blast in not too-distant past
silenced the melody
Too many refrains about our divinity
shattered the symphony.
How then do we propose to trap
notes traipsing with the four winds?
Wholes in the north, halves in the south
quarters in the east or dotted quarters in the west?
There is neither clef nor rest
to guide our unmetered steps,
no flat nor sharp to fine-tune falsetto laughs
in the three-four beat. Shall we waltz
or tango with the two-four beat?
Our choreographer is a master
but his choreography muddles our gait
--so we lose our footing and fall flat on
our scared faces.
We leap and run after a maestro
desperate to string in the baton of a virtuoso
notes dripping from a drying fountain
(the attempt paints a blush on our cheeks)
Arranged in non-dissonant meters
these fountain notes will rise to a crescendo
Or so we thought . . .
-- before a gold-rimmed stick mangled the tune of
our mortal song.
To reassemble scattered pulses of the earth,
we lay our faces, right-ears-down
prostrate upon the ground--
awaiting the hard crust’s deathless groans,
the storm of sand and rocks
earth’s jerks: rain upon our cheeks;
blind our eyes; stuff our ears to deafness
-- we sense rhythm upon
our singeing skin
Then the limbs learn to waltz and tango
Melody is resurrected in our torso
Although we’ve run out of choreographers
and virtuoso masters.