Like floral scents are bottled for perfume,
your voice is bottled up when it’s recorded,
and though it be compressed without much room,
it may, as though an airliner, be boarded,
for when I listen to it I can fly,
although the flights aren’t literal but real,
within my mind while I sit down or lie,
not through the firmament but what I feel.
So just like petal scents can fill a bottle,
please record your voice for me to hear,
so as when airplane engines reach full throttle,
by way of it, I reach the stratosphere:
there’s just a bit of air within your sigh,
yet it’s as though that air could fill the sky.
If I could hear my soul as though a voice,
I long have felt that voice would sound like yours,
and that’s a reason often I rejoice
when via satellite your speaking pours
in my receptive ear from where you are,
relayed through wires stretched from pole to pole,
or through the air in which it journeys far,
yet seems to me the voice of my own soul.
Your voice in reaching me from far away
through magic that’s been called technology
gives me a sense that there is too a way
my soul though it feels far can talk to me:
my soul’s unseen, and I can’t have a peek,
but through your voice, I’ve felt that it can speak.
Mario A. Pita