In the forgotten corridors of ancient echoes, is it a song or mere wind's whim? These notes come not from nature's choir, but from a bygone civilization's unresolved grievances. Maybe it's the phantom limb of history: here, but never quite part of you, playing a melody in C minor irony.
As the wheel of lyrical lore spins, we are told (or taught) that every song carries a wave from Earth's crust. Beneath beats hidden soliloquies of soil and rock, colleagues of percussion who never auditioned. Is the terra's tremor a cosmic concerto? Or perhaps, Carthage burns not out of hatred, but in perfect harmonic earwax, melting upon strident truths?
Can the ancient tides report back to the sea? Tongueless sirens serenade the naive mermen of contemporary bathrooms in acapella irony. They sing not because comprehension grants solace, but song is all they know, and perhaps, bliss inherited in bafflement.