If I could sing,
Now I would be singing—
Not of love or hate or beauty;
Not of anything in particular,
But of that inarticulate something
That I know, but can never explain.
Within I hear the countless melodies
That form one unbroken song.
If the notes were not so difficult
I would write it down.
If I could sing,
Now I would be singing a wordless song
That says everything.
The simple beauty of the proper sound
In the proper place
At the proper time.
Logic beyond comprehension;
Emotion beyond feeling.
The most precise of the arts;
The most undefined of the sciences.
This is music—
At least in part.
There is no music more beautiful
Than Quiet;
The frequency of stillness produces no discords;
Calmness and repose are the perfect counterpoint
To a life filled with wondrous, strange noise.
It is only in Silence
That true music is heard.
If only I could find the right combination
Of tones
That you could hear Music,
Or speak the proper words
That your eyes and mind might open.
If only
I could do the perfect deed
So you would comprehend
Truth and Love
And be set free from fear:
Then that would be Art.
Oh! Screaming siren!
Will you never cease?
Your voice surrounds me like so much discordant polyphony,
Never ceasing never slowing.
The shrill piccolo in my leg begins the imitation,
The timpani in my head repeat the theme.
Before one part is finished
Another joins.
The harmony is cruel though the melodies bearable.
The instrument you use is not your own.
You take my strength to play this,
Although I do not wish to hear.
When I cover my ears
The beat grows louder,
For you are within;
The pipes drone on their steady pulse within my head.
How I wish to flee this fugue!
But your voices entwine around me
Holding me still.
If only you were music!
A century, and again half a century,
The battles fought—
The conflicts unresolved;
The dead died in vain,
And the living—they go on living in vain.
Death, the mother, lately seems barren,
For no one lives whose death to mourn.
War is neither hell, nor death:
Hell is just, and some escape,
Death is fair and kind to all.
War is meaningless:
Unequal suffering without result.
So go on, live your meaningless lives
Laugh and shout through hedonistic pain.
(I understand—
It was madness that once tempted me
To avoid the world,
To avoid its sorrows.)
Go on, and add to the senselessness
And die your senseless deaths
And be forgotten.
I cannot—
The battle wearies me (for I see
The vanity of it all) but
I must fight,
Not over borders or for power,
Or the thousand senseless things that mankind seeks.
But I fight against the void,
The meaningless of life,
That my death might have meaning,
My life purpose—
That my memory might carry knowledge to the future,
That others will also seek truth,
That art and wisdom will not be forgotten.