I live in between breaths
Hollow are my words,
for haute hymns are felt before they’re heard 
and the dead’s echos are canon. 
A rhythm rises from the soil promising rapture. 

First line,
felt as love,
A second line, a round
imitating the first is met
Fool crowds gather, lured by a land’s echo of love and bliss. 
To be met by
A Choir of one, a native son. 
Dead. Silent. 

A third line, is borrowed from before. 
I live in between breaths
Resurrected to die again, a round
The dead’s echos are canon. 
Every overlapping line tied to shares melody 
Every soul tied to shared memories 
For each note is an owed to kin
all silence is owed to me. 
And lore is what borrowed breath claims
To be.