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The Sound of Creation
In the new moon
I heard the other
side of silence:
Nothingness rising
to the summit of all
there is.
It was born in this
furnace of giddy emptiness:
one note,
one dot of blinding knowledge
against the aimless void,
a diamond on ebony,
a new life spinning out of
a blind forever,
spraying shattered crystal,
then waves of sun and moon
and everything precious,
falling and rising
and sculpting . . .
music.
And worlds.
And all that is unknowable,
unreachable and perfect
is contained in rhythm,
the web we get lost in
on our way to infinity.
Clothed in a night
dripping stars,
I heard the ancestral drums:
Heaven's floor was just a stage
for the heartbeat
crashing to earth
then back to where we came from,
and all the answers were there,
but life stood between us:
just one short life and
one illusion between me
and understanding.
In the waterfall I heard
the ancient strings,
the first of many worlds
and the first notes
the river learned
in a burst of unbearable love,
now wandering in song,
now endlessly born
in the beginning
and the end of time.
Patricia Joan Jones
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