What such sounds should be hidden in a shell
rogue calypso waves in dawn's furthest reach
singing beneath the salt dew's haughty smell
that stalls upon the sand stormed gypsy beach.
Coarse winds play the harmonic flute replete
with spiral rounds that lull the churning tide
imbued with ocean's boisterous sounding reefs,
choreographed waves dancing by their side,
retained within the shell's false echoing reply.
What such sounds break upon the mountains rush
requiting oaths to the four winds spoken
treads the river wry and the thorny brush
piercing lies when truths are old and broken.
Rings of change tarnish eternal tokens
as branchless trees emit weak tepid sighs
and grains of time at once gleamed gold and golden
flighty love stripped of wings no longer flies
squawks to the cold hills with false echoing reply.
What such sounds flush with lovers warm embrace
that call on stars under starlight’s steady rain
brightening beginning through youthful gates
opening their hearts unfettered by its chains.
But all for naught and all soon turns to pain,
diminishing the light once in their eyes;
words of love spoke with soulless songs refrain,
the mountain rush, the sounding shell will die,
repeating, repeating the false echoing reply.