In The Eye Of A Cello

In our hearts,
we would play the cello;
our fingers carressing the strings
as our souls emerged from instruments of ancient wood.
Our life seemed bound with strings of love and loss,
our smiles flying through a winter's eve.
In our tears,
we would seek the answers to mathematical equations through
compositions we played;
candles lit upon windowsills in midnight cafes.
The music we knew
was the laughter of conversations as they drifted across the cafe where we played ,
places where our music was born.
And the clink of glasses as waiters caried them to the arms of waiting water always told tales of dreams and hope.
All was played those nights upon our cellos.
We composed sagas of jazz and light and scent of perfume
that drifted from the gardens in the courtyard.
All those nights,
our music sang the sorrow of our passion that became lost somewhere
upon the waves of the north sea.
And on those quiet nights when the last cafe closed
and people walked home arm in arm down reykjavik streets,
we would reach through our compositions
to find the silence that only the heart knows.;
the wind always singing. through the vents in the house where we lived.
This is what we knew all along;
that love like streams crossing a barren landscape
always finds yet another stream.
And in the end,
love endlessly cascades through sound that has no sound,
through a caress that only knows one other carress,
It always is becoming the dance of the seagulls in the early morning light.;
eternal.
.