How can you know where it went, when you won't
Know where it came from? The note is alone,
Threaded to others by forces you don't
Want to understand, in your close to home,
Where materials demand to be shaped
And transformed, in a blind urge to modify,
From discomfort, at how what is can't escape,
So the sun-lit world's for the hand, to deny.
You work like a monk to capture its word.
It never says what purposes are served,
Even as we puppets bob on our sticks.
It is not for the monk to ask for more:
What God is, what He wants, what this is for;
No use asking a dancer, "what is music?"
