A silver tongue whispers
from the edge of the universe,
cradled in a rusted moonbeam.
Lunatic, darling, listen close.
The shed—oh, the splendid shed!
where stars collect like dew,
where lunatics yammer and jam,
in the yearning air of night.
"Did you hear it?"
cried the echo of a fallen star.
"The cosmos weeps,
it sings, it screams!"
Let them be heard,
let the rhythms of celestial hands be understood,
in the language of shed and star, of night and drum.