It's the beginning, and there is silence. As if in a play a heavy veil of mist retreats into the waters and a large yellow lightbulb, fixed in the night sky, creates a spotlight over the sleeping world.
It's the beginning and yet the silence is giving way to a melody of echoes, so quiet they have to be imagined. When the clouds tinge with heavens and the starlight eats itself away, it's when the silence grows and beats, and the song begins.
And the song is beautiful, and a myriad of celestial eyes are fixed on the artist, poet without words, who needs words to sing the wordless, anyway? She merges out of the bluest in a liquid frenzy of droplets and notes, she is all gloss and cerulean, waiting for the lull of swinging grains of sand to mark her rhythm.
And by God, how grand it is; she sings to the sky, to the air, she's legless but yet her ethereal score is giving her wings, and still she denies them, she' always rather stay on her rock... She'll sin