Well into music, you  sound your note
A jarring note,  just an echo of harshness
An electric fan that has lost its bearing
A cane juice crusher that is spluttering
Shortfall of sweetness in a mouth of echo,
A gearbox dripping in thick black grease.

 Where echoes abound, the tree is bare
Of spring leaves, roots bony in the earth
Its birds de-feathered of love, of its chicks
The eagle is on roof in echoes of tragedy.
Unhappiness echoes in its wings of flight.

 
Well into music the goat shouts in its skin.

Its shouts are echoes from an alive skin.
Its drum beat is a mere illusion of sound,
An echo from the old sounds of mountains.

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