There are dead sounds at the foot of this hill,
sounds entombed under ages of longing,
sounds that echo, soft, in the night-time chill,
dead cries ringing and bunching and thronging:
There is a web of blue light stretching forth;
at the foot of this hill, it ensnares me
in its weave of sound, its phonemic hearth;
it mutilates my mind, twists me, tears me:
I stood once atop; a stone tore me down,
lanced from the hot hand of a spurned lover;
her anger, it seemed, was a glowing crown,
a red aureole with a slight hover:
I fell back with a shout as the sun rose
in violets and orange, and the time froze.

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