Listen to poem:
The echo returns not
I called to the hills, but my echo was still.
Swallowed up in the hush of a silent chill.
Why has my echo failed to return?
Why do the hills spurn my yearn?
Where has it gone, for someone else to hear?
The sound of my echo in a stranger's ear.
How will they know to whom it's from?
Be overcome, or be dispelled as a humdrum crumb?
Oh I wish my echoes would be marked
'unclaimed', 'undelivered' and earmarked
'returned to sender', 'no such phone',
'no such number', 'no such home'.
For echoes are meant to be returned,
Not lost, churned and left forever spurned.
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