Once above a time

A tall man in white

Sat before us,

Poised (one foot on a stool, like a honky bootblack, waiting for work).

What he held

Was not a guitar

It was a new born child.

All were hushed by the strum less silence.

But no music came

Only words, like lasers

(I even saw two -- maybe three -- tears in the seat next to me).

"Finally!" (Said a small boy, almost ready to leave)

He caressed the baby:

What echoed was not

(Ole can you see, by the Spanish moonlight...?)

What climbed was not

(As one Texan said, "There's a cottin' pickin' wet-back gypsy in there

Trying' to get out!")

What surged was not

(Even Malaguena, or Jose in staccato stilletoes)

What rose (by any other name)

Was (somewhere in Warsaw, by a fountain, a foot taps)

Quite unsheathed from reality:

It was

The language (and in Phenom Phen, another baby sings)

Of soul.