Myriad million voices
dying to be heard.
An orchestral silence;
Their last words.
Life's largest chorus hall,
the scale is absurd.
Echoes of their monologues
all that we observe.

Through the sparkling rafters
Our wonderings reverb,
We're awaiting a communique,
from a distant herd.
By the time that we'd arrived,
They'd spoke every word.
And the deep view carries on.
And their silence isn't heard.

Dan

A good read Dan, I really enjoyed the poem.

Les

There always the sense we've missed something, the thing, that is really important, in the background, just before we arrived...


Nice work, again, Dan.

Peter