Sing, empty spaces, raise your voices O winds, In dust finger-traces, where dances and spins Force without sight, as if when tuned to the ear Music or its cousin should sudn'ly appear To us alone we speak, who carve out such rhymes Such words are too weak, far out of these times Heard only by us, so but imagined perhaps In silence we listen, must vision collapse--? Must thunder be thunder, and not a voice Must rain not make rhythm, merely a noise Must whirring fans be but drudgery's wheels Must engines agree to what somebody feels Who cannot hear talking, except for in tongue Who never felt stalking, when they were young The sense that mute things could then somehow say Something in a subtle, yet recognizable way? No words have such things, no words of their own It is but man who so sings, and for him alone To enlighten the place where things might've spoke With finger to trace, with brush to make stroke Men think men speechless, because some can't hear But the rest of us speaking, speak in our own ear You'll never hear us, we wish we're unheard But silence endear us, and never that word Which you blast out in flat-color abroad We are the cast-out, do not think it odd That all things can speak, if we are yet silent The stones are so meek, and yet so are violent When once they are cast in the heart of the earth They speak of their past, of what little we're worth Then a riddle perhaps, O turner of head--? Will this stone make you quick--? Or suddenly dead?
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