Theremin

The air is played without a touch.
Hands hover like prophets over silence.
A sound gathers,
a cry without a throat.
It trembles,
it wavers,
it bends the ear to wonder.

The audience sits still,
not sure if they are listening
to music or to haunting.
Some call it science.
Some call it sorcery.
Everyone feels it stir the ribs.

The theremin is invisible hands
speaking through invisible strings.
It is a sermon without a preacher,
a choir without a mouth.
The air itself becomes a stage.

Now imagine the world as an auditorium.
Screens glow where violins once sang.
Commercials chant their choruses.
Television hums its endless hymn.
The news scrolls like sheet music
composed in secret rooms.

Crowds sway to the beat of slogans.
Trends rise like sudden crescendos.
A gesture goes viral,
a phrase repeats until it feels eternal.
Nobody remembers who struck the first note.
Nobody sees the hands that hover.

What plays us is not flesh and bone.
It is circuitry.
It is broadcast.
It is signal made flesh in our minds.
We dance as if compelled
by a melody that never resolves.

Some whisper of hidden rulers.
Cold blood behind warm smiles.
A reptilian hand on the dial.
Others say it is simpler.
Algorithms, markets, appetites.
The result is the same.

The theremin does not need belief.
It only needs the air.
And the players do not need consent.
They only need attention.
We lean forward.
We are already swaying.

The music builds without source.
The sound has no origin
and so it feels eternal.
Each note is a headline.
Each note is a sale.
Each note is a command disguised as choice.

The song goes on.
Invisible, undeniable,
seductive as a ghost.
We listen,
we follow,
we vanish into the tune.