Birth Of The Lyre
A carapace harbouring sheer silence,
It smelled of mud and silt, motionless on the path,
A shell where nights gather, if not a cenotaph,
Evoking thoughtless stone more than intelligence.
I pulled out the entrails that filled its paunchy skin,
I removed all the bones from the gold-crimson case,
I tightened seven guts my hand prompted to wave
Making of them a source from which music would spring.
There where light never gets I have caused tones to rise.
The enlarged canopy echoed to memorize,
Became a lucid vault simulating the world.
Devoid of self you were, like this stone, rough and wrong:
But as far as in you sound only fruitful words,
You're the cave where begets itself and live the song.