We are , each of us

A hallow flute through which the Muses blow.

Our symphonies and sonnets, sheaves of distant masters.

Not our own to keep, steal, sell or burn.

The song is not ours to own, but to sing and hear and have heard- the composers allow us.

The song is not a bargain- no more than the air is commodity.

Much as the market pharasies would wish it so.

The song is greater than the singer.

The flute can be broken or stolen or sold or burned.

But the song , once given to be passed on should be given the mercy of the muses.

Fear enthrones the decider.

The pity he engenders cannot undo the hatred caused in the deciding.

Would you allow the song, deny the singer for the sake of the muse?

Or , rather would you be forever damned by your rude obedience to the one who merely sang the others' song?

(let open the swiss safety box only after one hundred years)

(save the imperfect masterpiece- those ahead may need just such one)