“Be still. Will you please pause for a sec and care to listen to this story?” says The Psalmist.
If you could just hear his voice now, you may feel cozy and eager to listen carefully. 'Cause that’s how he says it all, with clear, confident, powerful, and warm exhortation. A voice as big as a giant but as soft as a singing maya. As deep as the ocean but as high as the heavenly bodies. It makes a class in an abrupt silence. It’s clear that it makes Math as easy as it was. But most of all, that voice is like music. Every phrase is harmonious to the ear.
The soft crisps and crackles of that campfire in the midst of a forest can be heard in the background.
“I have these songs I composed for your ears and may it draw you in. Care to listen, dear?” The Psalmist took his old guitar and with a soft pluck at the sixth string, that lower E note, resounded an ominous, sorrowful, but a bit comfortable, and curious mellow tone.
Then he said, “This is an old one, but may it tickle your mind and may you have fun as much as I did when composing this...”
He, then, plucked...
I wish you can just hear it now, a very warm and relaxing melody, but with deep feels and such sorrows abide.
The melody continues... as he sings...
“This is the nascence of their history
Plunge to the page
You’re in her epiphany
A songbook translates reverberation
Entering the dawn of existence
Cessation in its inception
The protagonist’s juncture
Rests upon the ears that heeds
Expectant to the spectator
The incipient is liftin’ now
The proverbial plot’s liftin’ now
The origin is liftin’ now
The opening is liftin’ now...”
“Those were the days...”