Organ

Among my fields
Of gold and green
Sticky bounds are marked by silkworm-eaten rows of mulberry trees
Concrete pipes are growing from the ground

Scattered ranks
Of different heights
Every concrete pipe contains another one of transparent glass
Inside each glass pipe stands a naked man

Bodies lacking motion
Sunk in amniotic fluid
Their underdeveloped eyes can’t see
Still they look up to the skies

And they sing
Till the skies are blue
No matter what
They sing
Despite everything
They keep on singing out

No air streams
Through their nostrils
Not one bubble rises up through the thick fluid from their lungs
The emanation is a flow of melody

Through their substance
They carry impressions
The pipes of the organ harmonically vibrate alive
Drawing melodies from their deep common ground

And they sing
Till the skies are blue
No matter what
They sing
Despite everything
They do nothing but

They sing
They don’t give a damn
If no one listens
They sing
If you’re there or not
They’re not singing for you

Fabio Scagliola, March 21, 2014