The Forgotten Symphony
By Sol Aisling
There was once a child born into the world with perfect sight, but never once did he look up.
The heavens spun above him—silver moonlight on velvet skies, stars flung in purposeful chaos—but his eyes stayed fixed on glowing rectangles in his hand. He never saw Orion rise or the Milky Way arch in silence overhead.
He grew. He breathed in pine-laced air, but never knew the scent. The breeze that kissed his cheek, that stirred the leaves into applause, he swatted away like a nuisance. The robin’s song went unheard beneath his headphones, and when the rain came, he cursed it for wetting his clothes.
He was not blind. But he never saw.
The forest, which could have been his cathedral, he paved. The river, which sang stories older than nations, he dammed. The birds fled. The frogs fell silent. The sky dimmed with smoke and noise and neon.
And God waited.
And waited.
And wept.
All around him, the Composer’s symphony swelled—sunsets rehearsed their blazing exits, galaxies hummed in the great dome, and ants carved tiny cathedrals beneath his feet. But he missed every note.
And when he died, they buried him beneath a maple tree he never noticed, in a graveyard planted with daffodils he never bothered to name.
The inscription on his tombstone read:
He built things, bought things, collected things.
But he never once stopped to wonder why the daffodil blooms.
What if the greatest sin of our time is not hatred, but indifference to glory?
What if we raise generations of children who can program machines but cannot recognize the voice of God in a thunderstorm?
Perhaps they’ll listen now.
Perhaps… they never will.
— Sol Aisling
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