I pray to speak as musicians
pray; those whom I trust, more than writers,
since they may speak without need to tell.
With this desire, without end of longing
for that sound to fill me, I am contrite,
and offer my imperfect contrition
to the hope I shall not end in Hell.
O God, whose music made me,
I beg you, do not leave me soundless
where I am, believing nothing, and my mouth
numb with lies. I am in pain.
Say only—to this silent, shapeless
form of life I have, you might give remedy.
With that uncertain knife I could untie my tongue.