I crept out on the ledges to hear them call and cry.
I huddled up and shivered underneath the looming sky,
and I fumbled for prayers and poems
in words uncouth and wrong,
in that time before Music,
in that age before Song.
Now my tower’s grown quiet, all its splendor undone.
I walk the crumbling spires in the peaceful evening sun.
I am drifting through echoing chambers,
down the hallways and years,
calling out now and then
to wind, God and men,
but no-one hears
in this Tower of Tears. 
I once was a poet ere the Coming of Strife,
back when words had meaning and resounded with truth and life.
Under night skies, I call out new star names
but their sounds don’t belong,
and nights are so long
in an age before Song.
So I search for the traces of my language of old,
baked in bricks by sunlight, dreaming deeply in rooms untold,
and I whisper to arches and stairways,
seeking measure and rhyme,
but my plea sounds in vain,
for no mem’ries remain
of Babel’s prime
in this Tower of Time.
It came like a torrent, seized me in my sleep.
Was it God, was it madness engulfing me wild and deep?
So, entranced, I stepped out on the ledges
into a wind warm and strong,
and I opened my heart,
felt the world give a start,
and I called out in Song –
a call made of Song.
They flocked in from the distance, yearning in their eyes,
listening with a hunger underneath the opened skies,
until the tune embraced them
like a billowing sail
filled by thousands of voices
like thunder and rain and sea and gale,
and when our music resounded through halls of brick and wood
through dream, mind and soul
now once more made whole,
we understood. . .
in this towering Song.
Our Tower of Song.
Come, walk along
in this Tower of Song.