Where to begin is not a point of origin or an age of history we know.
It's an emptiness, a void that a string of notes and stones falling as so.
Out of formlessness the ground is made, where does it lead to?
Although it's not within any known place, are you going soon?
But soon is the moment stalled by the unknown sacred ground and really,
it should go south, and the stillness of tone is lighter in such a deep route.
When the night is spoken and shades the stillness in yet humble timbre flow
Hours silent in measured rustling of chime and whir of wind in fire's glow
And the rising of element in the form destined and designed.
As though nowhere came to fall and throws out far off time.
But as it is, far away and quickly amiss, I walk in steps as a guide,
connected to overhead sky, and of that I recall the phrasing in the tide.
Waves in layers, beats of life, pulses recollect the edges of shrill call.
The edge expanded, formed inside the stillness, and let the sharp key fall.
Upon a bridge giving a long path as if it were a place to follow.
No time was counted and in that span came a light white and hollow.
It echoed back and formed around edges then seen in the mists,
and the phrasing was fixed and absolute, yet soft as any reeded flute.
TBC...
©Iggy 1996
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