So your deeper dreams did bloom, all filled with it.
And as you may recall, it had no solid form;
Only sound. Only the turning and the twist,
The harsh grind of massive veiled gears,
Whose tinny squeal plays like violins.
The echoing opera, the vast and unweighted spheres,
Silver hued and shining on their skin.
Your children named for ancient, fading Gods,
Whose greatest tales are ever after drowned
By reason, by the men who ran roughshod
Through elysian fields, searching for the sound.
It's singing, perfect, resonant and warm,
Black and empty but for your mellow hum;
All gentle heartbeats in the crashing storm
Of elder things all playing elder drums.
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