Have you heard the boy sing seven octaves we're told his voice is a conduit between what lies above heaven and what's buried below hell. Slight and young he opens his throat and the audience weeps he sings in thirteen languages mother tongues leap from his mouth the boy from Kazakhstan have you heard him sing did you set your things down your coffee, your tray of puzzle pieces, and pick up your dog and did you for a moment believe in everything and nothing, grieve and celebrate, long for death and accept that life could be like this a phone call in the night an unexpected dawn flowers at the door flowers on a grave a lullaby an opera did you disappear and when you returned did you write a poem
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