Keats

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

We cannot resist the tone:

we demand harmony,

that we all sing at once atune,

musically marching across the field,

a field dressed in blood,

draped in the splendour

of its gutted victims

now at last aligned 
beneath rows of stone

Alignment, now there’s a word:

a single axis of despair.

There can be no hiding

when we sing.

Any voice akilter,

strange, or new,

be it tremulous or tight,

low or high,

or simply wide or wispy

is silenced

less from harmony

some disharmony is made.

Silence, now there’s a word:

from silence

no thought appears.