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The Speakers, The Spoken
The clear sounds seep out of my viola
The orchestra croons, as if notes could speak
Of love found through rides in a gondola
Of love broken in a rash fit of pique
Many parts breathe as one, led by one thought
And all who can hear are in our sounds caught
The dead say what we know, and though they reek
We're gladly theirs, for such beauty all seek
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