Some sentences are spoken by little voices hawking "fresh" strawberries in jammed traffic. This jam comes in carbon dioxide flavour...not your usual razzberry. Other, older voices silence those squeaky voices with their gruff admonishing. There are other carefree voices that enjoy the casual banter of camaraderie. Some hushed voices professing a fearful love. The same voices later cursing telecom companies in not-so-hushed tinklings. Some speaking because they need the exorcise.
In far more silent auditoriums the only speech is that of instruments. No questions have been asked, no answers have been offered - only two instruments speaking to each other. A flute and a sitar. No lyrics here, no words to confound us with their innuendo or suggestiveness. A rippling river of strings over which the stone of a note skips across. The punctuation of percussions marking the query. A few teary eyes that reflect a very dusty inner mirror. Questions without answers. We've stopped questioning ourselves long ago. But others are answerable to us...?
Long after all the voices have faded away. Long after sticks and stones have broken our bones and words have hurt us. Long after one of those little voices stop their feeble whispers of a happy new year...there will still be voices too frozen to tell tales.
The warrior at dusk. Or the worrier?
Creations that make voices go "oooh"
And crowds that say "aah"..
..especially after instruments have rendered everyone speechless
The sound of bleating horns in thigh deep water
Sights which make you silent
Unless silence is natural.
Or if you are too scared to blow your own trumpet.
Perhaps simply scared...
You raised a voice in protest as others zoomed by
Although it needn't take only voices to scream out for attention
Because certain colours speak of hunger
Until the only sound you hear are chomps
There isn't much sound in whisperings of sweet nothings.
That's when you speak silently to someone higher Above
Apologize for the mistakes you will commit again
And hear the voices within.
