What is new yet always final,
In the birth place of a drought;
The same in spring or fall or title,
Never once was found without.
Who are we to question worth,
Found in words we’ve never heard,
And spoken back by some young stranger,
Songs from a foreign little bird?
What is noise if not the music,
Between the silences we face?
The heavy keys and weathered fingers,
With which we tap to keep the pace.
Marching quicker every year,
The tempo surely rising,
A great crescendo drawing near,
The grand parade reprising.

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