One.

Prelude to a song that plays
without a stop
Where words and music are one
When my eyes and ears can only feel.
This is but, a prelude.

To a song that sings itself
Where I do not exist to compose or to listen.
Where harmony brings with it
all the work it takes to keep it going.
And in this confluence
Where all that china crashes and breaks
and yet sounds like a soulful smite on strings.

Do I hear that smite, or does it find me.
Am I the soul in it, or is it the soul in me.
The crashing and crumbling of walls and china
in perfect harmony with soothing strains
at this pitch and scale.
In this time and space.
In this intricate rhythm
and this dance. Where it doesn't take two.

To tango, to listen, to play, to sing, to feel.
This perfect song.
Where I don't exist to define its perfection.
Where I'm not trying to take a peek
Into the glass jar that contains this harmony.
Where I'm not trying to find out
where this music comes from.
Where I do not forget to feel the music,
in my vain efforts to find me.
Or the source.
Because I don't know if I was the source, or if I still am.
and because I don't care to find that out anymore.
and because it doesn't matter if someone else is hearing the same music.
I only have these words, this music, for this moment.

This is only a prelude.
The song's only started.
But the silence is not yet over.
I no longer care if it is the prelude.
Or the end.
Or the song itself.