What is a song written so good and sung so bad?
I wonder like a child and am confused as an old man.
We always sing in the museum,
There is always music in the museum.
They listen to us–the thick piles of sheet music
On the dusty shelves and strewn all over the floors—
They are all silent. The violin and the piano stand
Soundless as if in rests and other silences,
Punctuating the movement.
Unsung song—is that a song? Unplayed music—is that music?
I’m rummaging through the sheets like a silver worm
For the songs we sing and the music played;
I’m tracing the grains of earth, ashes and charcoals,
Digging up coffins, groping into unborn wombs
For the dead and unborn children to find songs in singing
For those lying mute on the museum floors and shelves.