The memory of the innate style
Reaches out to the desire for the origin
Sound waves run willingly their memories
Pull inside the ear canal while the hurdy-gurdy and
The song of the illuminated bird soars
Spinning around behind the horizon upwards

The Eustachian tube shows it’s truth
Itself the labyrinth lies near to
A golden fleece of flesh and chain
Of causalities the [un]timely death
Provides as a result the faults the vain sounds
Of the tabula rasa the strings of the sitar and the lyra

It travels over the ocean vibrates within the
Slow cochlea and by linear channels that
Regress within the aqueduct of fast streaming reasons
The giving tides of matins to compline and vocals
Sing for hidden places of eternal oblivion the unnamed
Region where only a few or all will blend into

We all carry the true nature deeply within
Those who know and remember the reflective
Being and the form which silently and stately
Travels without a here and there without a sigh
No question to ask it wins by denial of the
Testimonials of the empty script and of deaf ears
The answer is as follows: