A sweet echo, sweetest of sounds serene,
like a secret medicine, it has always been;
Once a week, once a day, or seven times an hour,
I look for its spirit and pray for its power;
And as I dream of more secrets I cannot reveal,
I hide them away so they don’t lose their appeal;
With unusual visions, each key unlocks things forgotten,
where memories are weary and slowly rotten;

Perhaps for good reason,
it seems I live to know what is already known;
And while the white moon shares my tears,
I find all I’ve ever wanted has outgrown;
So, on a cold night—
always reliant;
I’m silent.