A World Amute

As creeping up in the blind of night:

The herald’s mute, the trumpet’s dead,

All system-sounds felled with one blow,

In one moment, all nothing said;

Where were locutions and lucid labelled brights,

The village runs words without

Syllables now whispered into dust;

No one to call the message of the shout,

Something of a golden frill,

Vanished one, so thinly gone,

Fairhaven mists, dripping solemnly,

For the endless words will stop,

Or will their pace be faultless

When it is thick, the pain of blood?

The heartbeat of the village lost,

Against the smoke of burning soft;

Whispered: they must come out,

Halted by too much thought,

Ever-beating, restless thoughts,

Summoning throughout the storm,

A melody never brought

Into the tuneless musician's lips

Upon now-stagnant, rotting hills,

And clock-towers without their tips;

They'll tick no more,

Their sound they break,

No chronometer or pendulum swing,

The path is lost by every route they take.

It came in the early morning:

Silver-slip distraction, calm and true,

Piper's piped, the words have crept

Out of their bed, the hot air flew

Piper's piped to children anew,

The cock has crowed its last hullabaloo,

In the village where time stood through

Lost language of what more to do.

The End

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