We write as if we’re seeking light Through layers thick of sound and silence, As if no truth is fixed or bright — Just shifting forms of hidden guidance. Words never come at once, they grow Like echoes born from quiet space, A trace of something we don’t know, A distant, half-forgotten place. And yet sometimes we simply long Not to go deep — but just to be: With fragile notes, a fleeting song, A moment’s quiet clarity. Chorus: Let it be a tango — A movement between lines, Where every step’s a question, Every pause — a sign. Or simple, playful verses ‘Bout worn-out, dusty shoes — Yet something in their rhythm Reveals a deeper truth. The guitar speaks like confession, The trumpet calls afar, The clarinet — reflection Of who we truly are. And drums begin their beating Like pulses in the chest — The music’s not around us, It lives in us, expressed. In you all paths are meeting: The sound, the thought, the shade, the light. A crossing of all meanings Where “no” and “yes” unite. When thought is seeking for a form And finds at last its voice inside, It’s not just words that are reborn — A living world begins to rise. And that’s the secret we can’t keep, Nor fully hold, nor understand: We only touch it for a beat — Then lose it as it slips our hand. Chorus: Let it be a tango On borders undefined, Where every step’s a choice we make Without a guiding line. Or even lighthearted verses ‘Bout worn-out, dusty shoes — Yet in them softly echoes What we can’t quite construe.
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