the notes tumble from the gongs
swirling around my head, settling
on thoughts like stray feathers
momentarily until, breeze-like,
a cymbal tickles a higher pitch
and brushes it onward.
Downward, inward.
How can music live with
The decisions of its people?
The agony of the strings sing
The ache of our time. Unity
Is as ethereal as harmony
As the kettles fight border skirmishes
With the drums for independence
I am torn between my heart
And my mind yet again…
