Ludwig van Beethoven
When quietness first insinuates its tone,
The ear is unattuned and doesn’t note
The difference. It’s as if a single bone
Crumbled in a tomb, alone, or a throat
Swelled slightly in a singer in a choir
Yet made no sound conductors’ minds could hear.
But just as flames flare upward in a pyre,
So silence slowly grows, a fungus, fear,
Until the aural realm, coated with a fuzz
Related to despair, becomes a smear
Of coma in the ear, or worse a buzz
Of nullity, or numbness, a noiseless wave
Billowing larger than an unmourned grave.