Irreconcilable with the freshness of silence,
with the wind tip-toeing through the front yard,
the sneaking walls,
the creeping floorboards.
Irreconcilable with common sense,
distant cars whispering sorrow-filled cries
as their winking spotlights
are forced through the night.
There is no silence,
not in the civilized world
or any other.
But what we call silence,
the darkness of small sounds
dancing together in perfect time,
muffled inside crimson red slippers and sleepy consciousness,
too low and slow
to be called noise,
tiny winged men
flapping outside the window,
indistinguishable to the excessive ear,
this, which we call silence,
is the divine music of an unseen force
making love to its own image.
It is the irreconcilable noises,
slaughtering the symphony:
The humming of energy
bottled inside cooling and computing devices,
the cry of light rays—
ever expanding by nature—
bouncing off the walls of glass cages.
These noises are irreconcilable
with the divinity of sounds stretching
through the breath of our tiny sphere,
marching through endless vacuums of space,
only to kiss off our ear
and fade in good time.
we call silence.