Whatever you do in this world,
you don’t stop singing.
Forget the world you’d drum up for yourself,
in this one you never stop singing-
hymning or bellowing or chorusing or scatting
but you don’t stop.
melodies flow out in tears plinking down,
footsteps ring out down the sidewalk
hearts thump bass lines behind xylophone ribs
while blood rushes throughout in metered time
and life is exhaled through the diaphragm,
lungs, esophagus, lips
so that the act of merely being alive
is a glory, is a song unto itself.
We are born of music and to make it,
we are composed of harmonious thought,
of instrument bones and particular strains
which weave and crescendo through our vibrating minds
and which emanate outward in waves
from which sounds the echoes will continue to move
long after the source has stilled.
You are a musician because you’re alive,
you’re a voice which sings to survive
and the only choice you’ll ever get in the matter
is what song,
always what song.
And whatever it is that you sing will burst
as the orca’s triumphant breaking breath
from one dulcet world unto the next,
will expand to touch all that you’ll ever know
and determine all you ever will
so that a victorious song is your human right
is both your salvation and your reward,
is your reason for being and your call of duty,
that if you must sing you will sing
to whatever end,
to whatever resounding finish you make.