a people of bullhorns

We are a people of bullhorns
we cry out in the night
we cry out in the dusty sunlight
but nobody really listens

its not that we don’t care
but all this digital shouting
craving attention
recognition
has dulled out our memory
and we have lost the art
the actual knowledge of sound
the craft of litening

one reed floating on the water surface
the hissing of atumn leaves
the pounding of our own hearts
a creaking wooden floor in an old house
long time ago

but there is an analogue wisper in the night
its present in the vast and lonely coountryside
can be heard above the din in the big cities
and if you listen carefully
over all our bullhorns

it speaks of birth
death
and of rebirth
of childrearing and of
sowing and reaping
od shelter for the very young
and the very old of loneliness
and leaving room for those to
follow

it has the power to teach us to direct our voices
it has the power to teach us to direct our voices
it has the power to teach us to direct our voices

and so
i will try to listen
and regain what has been lost to me