Wednesday, 7 December 2011
The voice of the sea is wordless, yet passionate,
Like the voice of a rabbit in pain,
High pitched squeal choking in throat
Appealing to no one, in vain.
Voice of the noon-bell pealing,
Fierce echo for what,
To forgive and forget he who can’t be remembered,
fuchsia or “forget-me-not”.
Lip service, does it count as another silent intention,
does it excuse a million sins of omission?
Sins committed by the fact that ones eyes can see,
Liberties taken without permission.
The sixth commandment in conflict with the first
tells us thou shalt love under strictest rules,
The third and fourth decree the Sabbath sacred
and mother and father, honoured by fakirs and fools.
Yet sometimes late at night in nether world
she speaks to me still, the flown bird.
Her voice a reminder of relics past,
confirmation of wish subdued by a word.
Can sins be committed in abstract?
A murder in mind for someone else to score
Safe in the shame of the heart
Where heart can conscience ignore.
That mute inner voice, easy to silence a while
Still yearning for sound of itself,
Expression, the goal of the unheard,
Swan song of elegant elf.
The lips of a child, the call of the wild
The whispering breeze on the rain,
The stifled cries of the unborn
Call back to haunt us again.