Makars Poem by C H Sund

We are but voices, expressing words
what our souls feel, no boundaries.
Where words lead, sometimes magical
patterned sounds, thoughts, melodies.

And those that sing in perfect pitch we hear
praise, adore, even worship too.
Surely, their wisdom speaks far above.
Gifted they… purity unstained.

But what private God checks these words
pitched in their perfect harmonies
Who calls out the charlatans?
To the altar, to the judgment, to the end?

We are but voices, perfect pitches, maybe not
but we sing our songs, as private Gods do watch.