I wonder why and when do children stop asking?
It is nested in the higher ground above the sacred door.
Only one at a time can reach it through the snail staircase: an uneven wooden spiral. Alone you climb and all light is withdrawn. You can only face yourself and all your hopes to play it right.
There it is now, sitting on a narrow ledge with an outstanding view of the choirs steps. It is fragile and the heavy instrument seems so out of place in such a small space. A raven’s nest.
You made it finally, there is no higher and you know it, not even the preacher can order you. Master and commander of the flock’s voices towards all divinities, you have the power to ask, but you don’t. You won’t anymore, not because you know the answers, but because you accepted you will never know them.
Why and when do children stop asking?
Gigantic pipes of silver and copper against the wall of despair. Pedals and knobs who requires muscles and passion, you have the tools but no dare.
Your voice has been stolen.
Once you were naïve enough to ask, to sing and dance. But only the silence answered you. The questions were pushed back into your throat and you could feel the bites while your care was ridiculed.
I answer always because I never want you to stop asking. I answer but gave up on playing the sacred instrument because silence has a melody far more refined than the lugubrious voice of the organ. I answer you because it stops me from asking questions.