Whatever you do in this world,
you don't stop singing.
Forget the world you'd drum up for yourself,
in this one you never stop singing-
hymning or bellowing or chorusing or scatting
but you don't stop.
You can't-
melodies flow out in tears plinking down,
footsteps ring out down the sidewalk
hearts thump bass lines behind xylophone ribs
while blood rushes throughout in metered time
and life is exhaled through the diaphragm,
lungs, esophagus, lips
so that the act of merely being alive
is a glory, is a song unto itself.
We are born of music and to make it,
we are composed of harmonious thought,
of instrument bones and particular strains
which weave and crescendo through our vibrating minds
and which emanate outward in waves
from which sounds the echoes will continue to move
long after the source has stilled.
A Victorious Song
32 | IWACA
FEATURE POETRY IWACA
Charlotte Cuevas