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You know what I miss?
When you take out
The inner sounds,
Major and minor,
When your fingers
Come weightless,
As feathers
or as Stravinsky’s,
When you fill the blank paper
With charcoal,
When the act of composition
Takes you over,
The invincible flow of notes,
When you grip the ash stone
As tight as my soul,
When even clouds
Start going round on tiptoes
Not to disturb the swallows,
One by one,
Taking off
From your eyelashes,
When the shadows leave your neckline,
When your inner space
Craves the bigness of a mountain,
When cicadas fiddling like jazz pianists,
When your music turns tactile,
And its echo touches
The whole length of my spine.
It is as if there has been nothing before.