Before the tunes become hits 
And the crowd weigh off 
To postulate about sudden glory 
There shall we journey them 
Through the notes of our melody 
And re-echo every flaw we faced 
With or without contrition 
Depending on its source 
Re-pointing to every nuisance 
that tampered our resilience 
Half way through our terrific dithers 
Making known to them 
that this chrestomathy arose from tiring nights’ strife 
When all lie abed 
In delirious postures 
Waiting on the cry of the morning bird 
Where every sound 
carries its own rhythm 
Some voluminous as in play 
Others serene as a dead body 
Lying asunder to the persistent 
glances from onlookers 
Attuned in piety gazes.


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