“When I’m 70 I might be a man in a park just wandering around, speaking in tongues with kids throwing bread at me.” – Noel Fielding
Grammy say’s, the tongues come to you when they are ready, when you are ready, when you are old and want to feel young again. Grammy says the tongues are more than a noise. She says they are “thy sound”, and “thy sound” is a craft built by angels.
Thy sound comes to me inwardly, so clearly, when gladness has ruptured my lungs. Thy syllables two by two, six by six, languages unknown, a word known by an angel’s tongue. Thy word by Jerimiah, thy Candance by the Acts, thy burning eyes by the end of all time, when true life won’t come back. For it seems you aren’t a poultice, an error of the heart, no longer a spoken scripture, a destiny of sparks. No longer are you a witchcraft, a demon casting art, a fair soft-spoken stranger in an entertainment art. And neither are you and action, or a seal lost in sand a verb, or an adjective written by a new wave hand. No, thy sound is lovers lost in a passionate cry, born before the sunrise when the new dawn chases sky. Tongues that meet thy sound, where the host meets the sigh,
We meet when we are different, we kiss when we are young, we touch when there is darkness, we don’t understand the start. We say there is a spirit, we say we know no heart, how can there ever be life if indeed there’s been no spark. We say there is a good will, we believe there is a need, still for the want of a language, we know not how to proceed. So, thy sound I pray thee, let it ever start. Let thy tongues roll through us, let our voices hark. Fairer than the timbre of an overture start. Let us sound like passion, bodies naked stark, wind beneath the eagle’s wing, notes beyond a harp. Come into us a habitant, not built upon a seed, rather a creator who gives and never needs. Let thy sound be music, like that which has not been sung. Creation of a mother to her daughters and her sons.
Thy sound comes to those elderly, burning age away, breaking barriers handily, bodily notes that play. Thus, is creation in thy master plan, old ways fade away. Thy sound falling from the cold dark heavens, accompanying strings arranged. Thy sound is not in error, in this moving time, tongues that kiss in healing, for thy holy name. The music oh so sensual, the craft of air arrayed, the swirling of all spirits, thy sound awe speaks displayed. – 07.07.22 – דניאל