July 26, 2010

On Beauty

Beauty is never muted.

It may be hidden behind a mountain, but, on the other side of the mountain, there it is.

A painting may be disfigured, but didn't once those scraps of fabric form a work of art? Would a painter draw anew, inspired by the first? Blue, red, yellow are ready for his brush.

A sculpture may no longer have arms, or a nose, but, if Pygmalion were to gaze again on Galatea, would he not smile, ever-thanking Venus for her grace? He knows, and that's enough. It was never the statue he loved, and Venus found her reality.

A song may no longer be sung because dictators choose ego over harmony, but it has not been silenced. The words and instruments play upon the wind, never resting to please another ear, but they are there. The notes are assembling with each new song.

Her smile might not glimmer in mid-summer joy along a river, but, when eyes are closed, those who saw her lips lift in quiet pleasure share it again.

Muted... no, merely out of view, or earshot, but always greeting us.

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