A first breath builds within;
a crying life births a soul
into notes for the living.
Music pulled from years
of hard blues sets firmness into
a laboring of sounds
darkly moaning lost names.
Jazz stirred from the pain of
absent arms and lips without smiles
scratches wounds into bleeding;
paths of scars have no rest.
He rightly possesses sweetness
of a struggling color.
His light is cast without
prejudice;
he sees the face of man crying.
Roger Singer 