All of his songs are air – not even dust.
Gone where no echo ever brings sound back
into forgetfulness. And so we pack
worship into that emptiness. We trust
his name alone, without his words or songs.
First was the best, we say, and hope we lie
but fear it true. Poets, musicians die
with envy in their hearts. To him belongs
all praise. In the beginning was the word?
No, music first? For him no such debate,
the will to know truth, knowing to create,
and sing as pure and simple as a bird.
And all is lost. It's that wound drives us on-
with poem or song to remake what is gone.