Sentences

Our conversation’s more like music than we think
The melody remains without the words.
We improvise in moments from few hints

With counterpoint, we make  harmonic  links
Our speech has echoes of the song of birds.
Our conversation’s more like music than we think

Is our tongue of rubber or of flint?
Some can make us speechless  with their words
Wounded, suicidal, hacked  by taunts

Becoming mute’s a sign of death that haunts
We live without our being, all unspared
Our conversation’s  far more   tragic than we think

We  respond  with silent sorrow to cruel hints
Vulnerable to lack or trapped and tied
From our little landscape, we depart

Our sentences,  our beings, will abide
If we are tuned up well and do not lie
Our conversation’s more like music than we think
We improvise  or die; oh, pointed hints!