Who, who remembers still
that an oasis, secretly saved in time,
turns up here and there even now—
as, somewhere in a city toward evening,
to a piano, to music as to love,
on call from black to white,
someone sits down and, by heart,
plunges soul into silence after sound,
and with chords that, one with another,
bind clearly and smoothly,
the air ripples into shape for us
and, as with pearls in sea-shells,
the hearing fills with radiance from within
and the body yields itself to that offering.
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