We silence silence with unmuffled noise,
cacophonous voices empty of thought,
discordant music flailing all our senses.
If silence were perfect, we would know
the Earth’s hum, the OM of the universe.
In silence we would hear ourselves thinking.
Absent silence, nature’s voice is diminished,
pines stilled, bird song lost.
In silence, Beethoven heard a C sharp Minor chord
and gave us his near perfect Fourteenth String Quartet.
Silence is the final note of Picasso’s The Old Guitarist.
He contemplates his instrument and hears pure sound,
the peace of a life well lived, one last note plucked
from the now silent strings that have lived as long as he.
