A Musical Riddle
by Bob Moore

       We age, our body’s bonds hold on
until they can no longer keep

       us glued, and then our threads untie,
and what becomes of me and you

       is music on a scale we once first
heard within a mother’s womb,

       the beat, the rhythm of the heart,
reunion of the bonds of love

       resumes, is music of the spheres,
of symphonies composed from time’s

       first birth, is from the pierce of grace,
is music found in every face.

       We age, we do our best to live
for years, but trips around the sun

       are short, our souls both lost and found
refill the source of every song.



 

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