An echo as
an imitative voicelies hidden in the arch of the railway bridge
where water drips and green years glisten.
It resounds as if its ventriloquism-
keeping the sanctity of the original, be it
the trundle or the click-clack of the train
passing above or the quack of the duck
in the pond below. You could hear the ring
about it, repeating without thinking and ability
to communicate. It's not a voice that allows you
to see things in a different light. You cannot
take it away because
it's not there to begin with. It's akin
to any musical organ's sound that comes
from the invisible. What we can take
from this neighbourhood event, almost
a miracle-the analogy, life too is an echo,
whatever we send
out, return back to us as a replica.
Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
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Written on 2024-08-05 at 04:37
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D G Moody |
