How strange it seems,
this quiet denouement in the dead of night
brought into being here
(if not into complete awareness of itself)
above the silent tracks
of suburban Sydney's railway lines
running east to west
or vice versa
depending on the inexorable
moment's need to travel.
And so you pause - reflect,
reverberate with hope
you will not stoop to mimic, imitate
or, parrot-like, regurgitate
that other voice,
original,
which being neither sinful
in its own right
nor imbued with saintliness
speaks out (and still insistent) to demand
that each of us speaks too
so that we may be
still heard -
on this morning after.
.
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