She’s beautiful, and would be my choice;
She’s beautiful, but I hesitate by that ugly voice.
How often do we experience the soul?
I do. When I look at a woman who is beautiful.
But then, I draw near, and before the soul makes a choice,
I listen to the soul—in the fearful particulars in the voice.
I know that sometimes the beautiful is a trick
To make use of me, to eat me, to kill me with a decorated stick.
The vines winding around the tree are snakes
And after the lovemaking the soul in terror wakes.
After the love flashes in the eye
The hand with the knife reaches around and you die.
The weeping love, the poem whispered in sorrow,
Is forgotten in laughter when I’m murdered tomorrow.
What is the soul? The soul is not the chosen, but the choice.
Who are you? That music. Where is it? What happened to your voice?