Sidereal the wanderers revolve
About the sphere that understands my feet
That's covered with an air I inspirate
And make a sound of with the instrument
That is my poor, impoverished body.
I vibrate like a reed or like a horn
That fills the room with overtones of sound
And changes timbre in a subtle movement.
Remember when the doors of houses faced
The east to meet the rising of the Sun?
Or churches built were oriented so
The solstice fell precisely at a point
Defined by its own architecture? I
Suppose I may have imagined all of this.
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