The woman you love is singing.
Quick, tell her what you love.
Don't tell her what you believe.
Don't tell her if God is dead or alive.
Don't tell her what's wrong with the world
and how to fix everyone in it.
The woman you love is singing.
Her voice is laying a table in the presence of death.
The service shines irradiating the cardinal points,
establishing the above and the below.
You are awake inside a larger sleep, inside a greater waking.
Even as the bell of this hour she rings out
is rung within a larger silence, which itself
is trough to the crest of a greater ringing at whose
audible limit begins yet another deeper silence born
into audience by one speaking those founding words,
I love you.
Now is not the time to quote scriptures or repeat
manifestos.
The woman you love is alive and singing,
making a new world out of all she loves and all she loved.
Don't remain outside her song.
Whatever enters her singing lives again, twice born.
And there's only one way in.
Speak your love clearly.
Live again.
So what if no one else can hear her?
So what if no one else witnesses her making and remaking
the world in the image of her love?
Soon, her singing will stop, and all you'll hear
is the violence of a world untouched by her song.
Remaining outside of her singing has cost you so much.
Quick, tell her what you love.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.