Orpheus and his Lyra in the sky
Buzzing with advice, just like every
Departed spirit. To hear the cold sky
Takes an awful lot of silence, to cope
When knowledge is too painful, and the day,
A machine, pulls inevitable ropes,
What you want still a hemi-quaver away.
But the mystery, even when it comes,
Is an orphan, invisible and dumb,
Like any new leaf fallen from the sky,
It needs, to even sing, receptive ears,
In those who'd live without cathartic tears,
Yet it receives ... a few keys, to get by.