The real singing is a different breath of air.
A breathing in a god, a wind.
Third Sonnet to Orpheus, Rainer Maria Rilke
Grasp the air and come with me --
watch breath become a song,
as our toes tread deep, our longing feet
twist free down deep below the sand.
Look above. Forget the scud
of lamb-curl clouds -- their whorl --.
Forget the sun, its rays near gone,
and warmth about to close.
Just imbibe the air.
Take a wayward breath,
a long and thirsty one.
Imbibe it slowly, sip with care
this elixir to sate a king.
Grab it, taste it, drink it in.
And then you'll hear its core:
those waves, their wind,
their pulsing breath --
the lapping at the shore.