ADYNATON

The ancient rhythms, the symphonies of word,

Age-old stories one can only hope to breathe;

Carry on relentless, desperate to be heard.

 

Silhouettes of the melodies sung by songbirds,
It is indeed a reckless way to savor thee;

The ancient rhythms, the symphonies of word.

 

Immortality fell from the tongue and stirred

The faintest remnants of a memory’s plea;

Carry on relentless, desperate to be heard.

 

Sentences spoken in pictures that’ve blurred;

They are whispered things, never quite free,

The ancient rhythms, the symphonies of word/

 

Miracles of mouth told of history recurred,

To begin again, now, then, beyond the red sea;

Carry on relentless, desperate to be heard.

 

These wandering narratives, always transferred,

Faded ink could not possibly compete;

The ancient rhythms, the symphonies of word,

Carry on relentless, desperate to be heard.