Still Life by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Still Life

Page 223

Here's a lyrical counter-gesture; a song not sung, a ritual of refusal, composed in the shadow of the marching tune. It’s not silence, but a choreography of unsinging, a hymn for the archivist who declines to commemorate, who bears witness without echo.

The Archivist’s Refrain (The Song Not Sung)

To be recited in stillness, not performed in fervor

Verse I

No trumpet calls the name aloud,

No banner stains the morning cloud.

The mic lies quiet, gold unraised,

Its rim unkissed, its zeal unfazed.

We do not chant, we do not cry

We catalog, we classify.

The blood was spilled, the myth begun,

But we record, not rally, none.

Chorus (Unvoiced)

Let silence be the loudest sound.

Let memory remain unbound.

No anthem here, no marching beat

Just dusty shelves and unsung feet.

Verse II

He spoke of truth, or what it meant,

Of freedom framed in argument.

But truth, once sung, becomes a spell,

A cage where facts no longer dwell.

So we transcribe, but do not praise,

We footnote myths, not set ablaze.

The martyr’s mask, the hero’s glare

We file it all, but do not stare.

Bridge

They ask us why we do not sing,

Why we withhold the echoing.

But songs can sanctify a lie,