The Word from His Song

The sparrow on my rooftop shouts,

“All roads be blessed.” His voice a ring

for the finger of the beloved.

And he wouldn’t work harder at his song

if all the world prized it,

nor temper what sounds like ardor

if a public thought him wrong.

He says singing redeems the body’s loneliness.

All praise is homage to an older praising,

a drastic sum and ruling mean,

earth’s urging the grapes to a clearer fate,

sun’s pressing them to a more potent praise.

Flying fixes the heart to the sky’s wheel, he says.

Salt cures the script.

Light is a fractal script.

Imagination is branched, flowering,

and each fans the buds himself.

He says every atom burns.

Hunger rends the kingdom by mending,

marrying voices and wings.

Singing builds a throne

for hearing, sets up a swing

between our one night and our day.

It’s all song, all singing, the body’s seat

and number, the mind’s pleats, time’s hem.

The voice is a sighted brink.

Its mission is to sort the world.

The tongue is a mortal flower.

The dew at last. The guests arrive.

The child learns his name,

a virgin bell. And even that

iron note is God awake in two worlds.

God seeks a destiny in all things fired

in the kiln of the sun or the mind.

That’s the word from his song.

~Li-Young Lee