Maybe you can hear that ethereal song, that churn, gentler before, now overwhelming? All love that beautiful word heralding new things coming. Know that the musician need not bow; there is no chance to bow before his audience, for all flee before the first word, missing the rest.
Eager quarter notes lead spinning, one half note follows dancing, reverberating loudly.
For the word follows mighty kings, proclaiming triumph. Used by horses, cantering gallantly across wheat fields. Like an unfinished thought in the back of one’s mind, unspoken. Listen to it… wait.
Within the rest between music’s measures, the word still echoes in our heads; rest itself seems elusive.
Over Earth’s high mountains and low valleys the word is repeated; nations watch, wondering.
Reminiscent of swirling breezes before the twang ringing from a hunter’s bow and the piercing cry that follows. Defying reason, the word follows cold, even follows death. Can we comprehend that life follows that word… rest follows that word?
Like the mother’s whispered word or her sweet child humming at rest. Overeager, tireless drone, heaven’s word, sweeping out stale dreams.
Unending comparison I could continue, but the rest would be redundant.
Doubtless the word you have guessed, but please explain how it lies encoded within.
