it is the beat of rain on rooftops
the squeal of tires on tired roads
echoing of a cough in a church
the slamming of book on floor
calls of birds, and bugs, and dogs
pencils tapping messages in code
the tv turning on to a commercial
the phone hanging on the receiver
change rattling in a hobo’s can
a woman’s gasp at a man’s proposal
the silence of the forest
the quiet of child’s sleep
the hush of new snow
the words staring back
the beat of a tribesman’s old drum
the horns of a million city’s sewers
the strings of the reeds and oceans
the vocals of a world without sleep
the sight of man in free-fall
the smell of a fresh, new day
the feel of looking out at the
world
these are the sounds of living,
the very song of life.
we hear it
and
we play it
and
we know the tune
but,
never,
amongst all this
cacophony and
symphony,
do we ever
realize:
we were never taught this song
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 3:55 PM UTC
it is the beat of rain on rooftops
the squeal of tires on tired roads
echoing of a cough in a church
the slamming of book on floor
calls of birds, and bugs, and dogs
pencils tapping messages in code
the tv turning on to a commercial
the phone hanging on the receiver
change rattling in a hobo’s can
a woman’s gasp at a man’s proposal
the silence of the forest
the quiet of child’s sleep
the hush of new snow
the words staring back
the beat of a tribesman’s old drum
the horns of a million city’s sewers
the strings of the reeds and oceans
the vocals of a world without sleep
the sight of man in free-fall
the smell of a fresh, new day
the feel of looking out at the
world
these are the sounds of living,
the very song of life.
we hear it
and
we play it
and
we know the tune
but,
never,
amongst all this
cacophony and
symphony,
do we ever
realize:
we were never taught this song
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