Pantoum of the Opera

Under the Opera House, the note is played,

At first discordant sounds, in broken time,

And then as that great skill, is sure displayed,

A melody crawls out of blood and grime.

At first discordant sounds, in broken time,

Birthing it's harmonies from cobwebbed halls,

A melody crawls out of blood and grime,

Above the smallest echoes, thrum the walls.

Birthing it's harmonies from cobwebbed halls,

It rises, through the brick and stucco'd stones,

Above the smallest echoes, thrum the walls,

A pulse of music sounding through its bones.

It rises, through the brick and stucco'd stones,

Until performers and the public feel unease,

A pulse of music sounding through its bones,

A thrill that tantalises, but that may not please.

Until performers and the public feel unease,

At what they sense but can not place or name,

A thrill that tantalises, but that may not please,

The audience, desires more of the same.

At what they sense but can not place or name,

Their prejudice repulses, and they shy,

The audience, desires more of the same,

They do not heed the birds of that strange sky.

Their prejudice repulses, and they shy,

From music unlike any that they've clapped,

They do not heed the birds of that strange sky,

Unseen save for their songs, by man untrapped.

From music unlike any that they've clapped,

The cries of chimera, of lorelei,

Unseen save for their songs, by man untrapped,

The calls of kraken, rising, but to die.

The cries of chimera, of lorelei,

And then as that great skill, is sure displayed,

The calls of kraken, rising, but to die,

Under the Opera House, the note is played.