In praise of the silent mystery of songs extinct I sing.
In praise of their brutal sound – their dead silent blank. In praise of the possibility the ancient rocks will hear again their refrain a universe or two from now. In praise of the possibility they won’t. In praise of the carbon in long-since rotten ears –
repurposed into dirt, grass, newer flesh – that captured their frequencies and sent them into long-since rotten brains.
In praise of the songs of the living and the ears to hear while we have them I sing.