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Back Where They’ve Passed and Run


The old rocks hear the newborns whine
I know such fact as I pace down the crusted rails
that trains and elderly dreams used to run across

I feel deep murmurs, of every dialect and every passenger
translated from the language of imagination and reverie
tangible; when words bounce from brick to tree
The old rocks hear aged hymns cleansed
I hear low drums hum, but those notes will not last
feathers are doused, and buried deep under ashes

A song still lays somewhere in their throats
but it'll take form in a mother's mourn
They can only hope prayers someday become sugar-coated with hope
The old rocks witness the grasses go
I see wheels and cargos and tanks
small children have smoky faces and phantom minds

earth shakes, soil cracks
As for the houses, they'll soon find peace
because grasses aren't the only ones that go
It's ultimately the same summer sun
that brings me back to where they've passed and run
around the houses, down the river
The old rocks hear the newborns whine

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