To the choirmaster, a solo for violin

Holy is the empty space, the void within form.

When we are pulled taut by the extremes of life, by conflicting desires, when we tremble in the guideless air, isolated even from those who are closest to us,

Holy is the gaping dark.

Though we are powerless before the rod, caught within our own chafing limitations, the forces that press and move us—nevertheless,

Holy is the unknowable abyss below.

Because in the clear still night, when we cry into the holes in the center of our being, our voices will echo in the place where there is nothing, and out will pour a song of comfort, clean and pure and soothing against the black.

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