Bismillah ir Rahman ir Rahim

My sheik tells me those who know say

Every sound

Is the echoing nuance of the first sound

The residual thrum of creation’s explosion:

My voice,

Your heartbeat, the nervous clink of your cup full of cold chai soy latte,

The smack of scorched flesh smoking on pavement,

The wail of a father carrying his boy’s body,

The hail of gunfire, the staccato beat

Of his mother’s breath as she bore the boy

The dying screams of the dogs he tortured,

The click of the camera,

The satisfied grunt of the photographer:

What a tableau: rubble; market distorted, boy’s blood on father’s face; denial and horror mixed aghast unveiled; the limp, plump, dangling arm…

The trickle of cash from publisher to picture,

The roar of fortunes from populace to paper, from government to war machine.

Yet one is the truest number.

Hear:

The whisper of charity, the quieting sobs of comfort given, the silence of decision,

The burst of heartfelt truth, of reasoned discourse, of beating back the tide, of working for what’s right without succumbing to the violence of making it a fight.

Every sound is the echo of creation.

What notes do you play?