The Bells

Rusty, tired bells tumble, booming their tale
From the fiery furnaces of life, the chime chatter
To the tart toll of time and of extinction;
Nothing in between.
Where was the fun for being forgotten,
Only to be heard in whispers, where wind bids?
Where was the existence outside of everyday,
The invisible, fading tingling call for Salvation?
Where are the sounds?
The sounds of thunder, the sound of sweet rain,
Of laughter, of mourning, of life’s light, the moon’s wane.
Where are the sounds of the soul?
What has rusted us to silent ringing?
What chains do we let trail behind us, forgotten?
We like heavy bells not played,
Lazily do shroud around dust of Death.

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