Silent Song

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Silent Song is a sonnet, written back in the day. I had to edit this one for reasons of comprehensibility. I must have slipped up somewhere and never noticed. Funny thing, perception...

Strength flows, swift and vital, within that warm, dry form.
It finds, what killed the cat in wealth, yet tames it well.
As frankly as they might touch gold and sail a storm,
So bashfully they sail, where fragile love may dwell.

You lead, while lead yourself, thus they convey to me.
And where you settle them, does long to hold them tight
With fingertips of hair and palms touch, I must be
As close and closely bound to you by heart's delight.

Their language sings a song, a symphony of touch
And I can sing along, rubato, verse and pause.
A finger tracing staves, a hand brushed note... Too much.
Yet you can never still this burning thirst of course.

Your hands comprise a world to me of moving waves:
But words don't show them nor, what my heart in them craves.