A distant murmur
dips towards us from beyond the horizon
or does it quietly insist
already inside our ears:
a message that has no trajectory,
a signal without attenuation,
a rumour in our marrow?
The word it speaks eludes
the loud gossip of atoms
with their clubs and cliques,
their molecules and mobs of
jostling form
and stands silent
in our immediate presence.
It knows no limit
of earshot, and so without raising its voice
can shout with all the
accumulated whispers
of the furthest most red-shifted
points,
a chorus that sings
of the kinship
and common birth of every time and place
and the faintest of all whispers
calling them home
to the beginning of time,
to the edge of space,
will be made
deafening and irresistible by distance at last.
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