Music box clock work,
Spinning the sounds around,
In mechanical dance;
Spewing the secrets of the universe.
Once made of molten metals,
Now cold hard steel,
He who has the key to make it sing;
Spins it into life eternal,
And doles out measures of its music,
Into the crags and crevices of time.
Wherever The Voice issues,
Muddied men rise up from their graves;
The maker of the Clockwork Bird.