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March Audiography


A thousand voices from home call me
Consistently
What I’m stuck is in the other thousands
When on each morning of unplanned silence
The wind, engine and horn gradually swallows
Soft strains of nostalgic melodies
And there is only more wind, engine and horn
With the impending sound of the approaching day
The mornings are far away so shortly
Thousands of heads are on the streets
Shoving, squeezing and sloshing
Kerfuffle in some corners yackety-yaking
Aimless tramps in sporadic spots murmur
The roads, the walls they speak their languages
So piously the day follows
As if it really makes sense.



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