Tenor. No more to sing your song
for heart’s pulse.
Not yours or mine. But echoing,
Heard by the ears of the earth
as the river sends up it’s lament.
Tenor. Soar with the rumble of
gathered voices. The rhythm,
you remember, but not just of life.
More than mind or memory
can possess; possession is fleeting.
Fly, voice and rhythm, strong now,
Born of Joy.
Tenor. I know your song, I live
my life by the rhythm of yours.

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