Someone’s song is here behind me,
So I need not pile sounds on words,
Some one else’s I do make my own.

Bodies sing alike  in separate sleeps,
Their words drawn from same sleep,
And sound ancient skeletal remains.

Sounds are like a scream on  bridge,
Like market’s din rising above price
Of snake gourds lying curled in bags.

Someone’s song is a market’s sound
A common sleep’s continuing song
Skeletal remains of mankind’s song.