Kopfkino

Song was what they called it. The ones before us could hear it they say. I wonder sometimes,  How must it feel to hear .  To reach in and, Entwine my soul with another creation of god. The ancestors tell tales I don't understand.  Tales of songs, Songs of the waters of the rivers, And the branches of the trees. Songs of beings with no face nor limb. I wonder, What is the colour of their souls, The rivers, rocks and the earth. What do they sing about? What was nature's great symphony. But alas, we are now cursed men.  Robbed of the charm of song. "Do not lose hope little one." they say. Hope to maybe rekindle this forbidden art? but I, I don't know to hope like they do. We spend our days in regret,  Of the sins of our forefathers who've left us cursed, Plunging our arms into the earth, Trying to reach out for something long forgotten. Tremors and vibrations are all that's left, Like a ruinous monument of the past. A dying goddess, and her last breaths, ech