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Said the Lion: ''On music I dote
But something is wrong with my throat
When I practice a scale
The listeners quail
And flee at the first note''.

UNSEEN PROSE AND POETRY

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The goldsmith at work is a priest at the altar . As though he was were performing the Eucharist, he is engaged in deliberate motions of reverence. The small vials of various liquids such as mercury are little vessels of communion wine. The minuscule rings of intricately crafted gold are like miniature wafers.
He dips one tiny ring into a liquid, lifts it up to the sky and presses it onto a space in the growing length of necklace. It fits- it is like dipping bread into wine and slipping it between the parted lips of a communicant.
Our lent vigils are not as solemn as the goldsmith's silent solemnity that directs his work. We look on as the wizardry of the master matter craftsman displays itself. We are held in thrall....