The Echo Returns Not
The bare granite hill, worn down each day,
I climb halfway and call your name.
A sound rings loud, echoing near,
Yet only silence fills my ear.
The hot wind halts, the sky stands bare,
Yet stillness meets me, cold and rare.
The valley knows the sound of stone chippers,
Knows your laughter sweet and melodious,
Now the stones, though worn and wise,
Keep your voice in mute disguise.
I wait, I listen—time stands thin,
Yet no reply will call me in.
Some echoes fade, some never start,
And some are swallowed by the heart.
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