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| (a reminder)
there is a sound it makes when crashing against the rocks Listen for it before you leave It has a voice. Harsh and disguised in its gurgles and splashing. You can hear the dead lost at sea in its crying And the moans of widows; But there are also shouts of joy and anthems The good catch, the return home, the passing of father to son. Listen for it. There is a sound it makes as wind passes through its branches. Listen for it before you leave It has a voice. Like air and applause it shouts and moves. You can hear the songs of the loggers and drivers Tears of people long gone And the laughter of children playing and hiding under their boughs. Listen for it. There is a sound it makes if you open the window. Listen for it before you leave. It has a voice. Drums and dancing from some club, car horns and the fog like a gaseous spider creeping from street to street almost alive. You can hear the rain touching pavement and dreaming voices of towns and cities laid out like a busy pop up book, busy with dancing and dreams. Listen for it. Before you take that airplane, my son, or boat, Write it down in the wrinkles of your hand so you will never forget it. Remember it in the liquid of your eyes encourage your tongue to never lose its lilt, and keep within you the music of moss and hairy trees, the wind across the barrens, the light playing on the harbour, the silly gulls singing their silly songs and the old jokes of older friends. and then, despite the passing of day to day and the weariness of knees and eyes, the graying of hair and so forth, these voices will warm you and you will know, just by listening, which way is home. |