Halting, sound of sorrow,
quiet note in pale blue evening,
dusty,
a voice that knows it may not be heroic,
swelling sounds of brass. A cry.
Stranded in a present
and knowing what has come before,
a struggle for existence, to which
a crowd will softly clap.
Unsure of where we are -
singing of some lost tradition -
a quick child greets you -
you pour out your song.
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