‘Tis of thee, ’tis of thee, ’tis of thee,
of thee I sing, sweet heart,
my pith, my mind, my core,
my courage and my coeur de chant.
We are the whole damn chorus coming down
raining sad songs for all the weary world.
My tympanist, my diastolic, my systolic dance,
my own hell-heaven, coloratura and my profundo.
Let’s sing our opera in Italian so
we move ourselves to tears, and join the flow…
che faro senza Euridice?
dov’ andro senza il mio ben?
Sweet heart of many gratis blessings,
passion and compassion when they come,
only hum for one more time the aria
piu succorso, piu speranza
ne d’al mondo, ne d’al ciel….
but please, dear heart, don’t go with Orfeo.
Let singing be ablution, water be the gift of tears.
Let memory remain where it belongs–
only a part of the wholehearted song.
And let us rise out of this place—
grab a towel now, begin to climb—
into the wilderness and music of emerging time.