Bathed in Oil

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,
Copper coil,
Leaden barbs;

Thick sprockets,
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;
To praise
The maker of the Clockwork Bird.

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