A box made of glass keeps the real world at bay;
I feel the glass press in each word I can't say.
Like butterflies' wings,
Crushed between the glass panes,
A mute can't for mercy beg, or cry to ease the pain.
The glass passes sound only in, never out —
I hear what they say of me,
I know the things they shout.
This magical glass, no one but I sees.
A wizard might break this spell,
His magic set me free.
What magic is left in a world grown so old?
All magic died long ago, so we are often told.
My wizard would know where the magic now hides —
It passed into silence, where he keeps it yet alive.
Like magic, his hands teach my silence to sing,
And magically silence lets the butterfly take wing.
And I am a hawk! A great, noble tree!
The silence is everything,
The wizard is the key.
I learn how to speak with my body and eyes.
I pantomime miracles in the magic silence buys.
I'm no longer tied to a world bound in sound —
I silently soar away from the bitter, broken ground.
As I knew he must, the wizard hands to me his throne.
He mimes now to Heaven's halls; I mime to trees, alone.
Burnish me bright, before the night comes,
And look down from Heaven's height
To bless the mimes I've done.
Burnish me bright, before the night falls.
I shine brighter than the stars.
The silence makes me all.