Following his song's lead, each hel...

Following his song's lead, each held stop speaks, past the lightness of tongue the need - all that hymn lacks and seeks,
slackening its smooth cries through the black tree where the black smooth table lies - ripe fruit, the blaze of ease
upon silver bowls and plates - want's clean, arctic glow - while Papageno contemplates his master's law, to know
by what mode not to eat the fruit or drink the wine. With his cage of musical instruments and new flute flung with his fine light chain
of bells from one side of to the other his arm - magic, the glutted song of the bird-catcher - no harm, no pentateuchal purr shake