Theirs is a strange art, the weaving of Air and sound into a weightless tapestry Hanging in the church, a vibrating cloth free Of sorrows that clothes men with God's love
Strange, strange is the shuttle of sound that moves In and out, out and in around the key Thread of beats in time, the time that he Draws to weave a cloth of sound for another
This is the strangest art, weaving of time And sound into a cloth one cannot feel With the hands; we can only touch It with the ears and soul
A rime is a poor needle with which to thread such A cloth How can such a needle seal ?