The silence you paint, with echoes of a voice burdened by radiance of a hundred different hues.
And at times I feel you sound sweeter than the Angel Israfael, whose heartstrings are lutes.
The seraphs in heaven, they halt their ebullient praises, to hear the tune unfold.
Low, mournful melody singing of untold grief, a soul saddled by a tiniest tinges of love.
The universe it holds its breath, in wonderment, as your song travels to heaven’s adobe above.
Even proud, bent Atlas has to hold the water that leans for the window of his soul.
And Gaia, she shakes on her very core; yearning to unite with Oronous once more.
The suns, it dims and a chill run though all creatures of Earth. Lo, Apollo himself has been humbled.
For a few seconds, the mystification mounts. Magic it is, yes, and of the most magical kind.
The only trick to protect the sanity of one’s mind. Is to never, ever close your eyes.
For the hymn will swirl images of things too beautiful for mortals to lay their sight.Yet the only thing, of this world lovelier, is how your lips tremble as you complete the rhyme.