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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Veil with Trumpets”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The room holds its breath in cream. She wears a nest of green ribbed bands, a patient braiding that crosses and crosses until the eyes are rivers turned underground. From the seams, red trumpets crawl into daylight, each petal a small siren with quiet lungs. Her mouth keeps the same red like a promise she won’t say, only carry. Even closed, the face is busy. Buds test the gaps like clever weaverbirds, now-now they slip through the rules, learning the alphabet of air by touch. The turtleneck holds the weather to her, a black winter pulled smooth as a tar road. I think of Table Mountain with its tablecloth on— how the city goes hush beneath the drape, and sugarbirds still locate the aloes, needle-straight. What is bound makes its own openings; what is blind finds another kind of light. In a room this quiet, the flowers do the speaking— soft vuvuzelas of perfume, calling the day to make a plan.
Alternative version
She does not look — not with the clamor of eyes but with the hush between heartbeats, where green tendrils spiral like vows around thoughts too wild for language. Her mind is wrapped in living stillness, a crown of chlorophyll calm, and from that hush, crimson petals press their speech through the seams of her knowing. Each bloom is a breath she never meant to exhale — red, unspoken revelations rooted in soil she once called silence. She is no longer a seeker, but a garden. Not a watcher, but a bloom-bearer where the world unfolds inward, petal by patient petal. Let the noise fall away. Let the eyes forget their hunger. What grows in silence needs no light — only time, and a soul soft enough to listen.
Lyrics
Room holds its breath, cream walls stay still. Green bands braid, crossing over crossing. My eyes turn rivers, running under. From seams, red trumpets climb to light. Each petal sings soft with quiet lungs. Her mouth keeps red like a vow. Even closed, her face stays busy. Buds test the gaps, now now weaverbirds. They slip past rules, read air by touch. Black turtleneck holds winter smooth as tar. call the day find a way I think of Table Mountain, cloth down. City goes hush beneath the drape. Sugarbirds find aloes, needle straight. What’s bound still opens its own door. What’s blind finds other light. In this quiet, flowers speak perfume. Soft vuvuzelas call the day. We make a plan, we breathe. She does not look, she grows within. Thoughts wrap in green, calm crown. Crimson words press through the seams. Unsaid breath turns into bloom. call the day find a way I stop the eyes, I garden in. Noise falls away, I listen. call the day find a way
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