To hear the silent,
lonely song of the moon tonight,
I strained my heart,
climbed up the winding stairs
of my creative will,
each step stained with sweat
of the masons who built them.
Wonder if they are alive,
do they climb stairs too,
to try and hear this song I crave.
Silence...
That's what we all get,
even the living masons,
the dead artistes,
after a futile chase.
For what we possess is
a bit of noise, quite a lot,
which we clang up
living by some mortal algorithm.
Look up above, I plead,
in Clair de Lune
lie our immortal visions, life's rhythm!
