There is no need to rhapsodize
About the music made by humanity.
It sings for itself.

Made by throats, sticks, sinews, skins,
Reeds, metal or wooden tubes,
Stamping feet, or clapping hands.

From simple noisemakers
To immense pipe organs
And complex electronic synthesizers.

Whether as solo performers,
Or an orchestra of hundreds,
We must make these sounds.

And we must listen and hum,
Or whistle, or sing along,
Or simply move our feet.

Bach doesn’t sing for all
Each culture sings in its own voice;
Each time and place, a new song.

Songs to put our babies to sleep;
To win our beloved’s heart,
Or mourn their passing.

We sing to our gods,
And their creatures whose lives we take;
We arouse our feelings for homeland.

We sing our joy;
We sing our pain;
We sing our lives.

It is our heartbeat
Vibrations felt even by the deaf
A complex pulse for humanity.



© 2008 Michael Yanega
23 Aug 2008





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