The Old Bells

by Paul Wadey 02.01.2024

Whispers of time, soft and deep, ache,
In relentless pain, unyielding, our children break,
Each moment calls for change, so rare,
New bells might ring clear, in crisp calm air.

Memories hold, old tunes that pine,
Unyielding to the new, in time’s own line,
Echoes break, past stories, lore,
New bells might sound change, forevermore.

Not just enough, but striving for best,
Bold new bells might chime, without rest,
But the old echoes breed disdain, in every beat,
With each ol’ transient peal, new divides we do greet.

Every new toll may bring tales anew,
Shedding old skins, a fresh earthly view,
But change speaks in tongues, untold, unfound,
Quaint hope in old hymns, in an dull bell’s sound.

Starlit skies, old echoes blend,
New bells call, outlier messages they send,
Of vibrant rhythms, of life reborn,
Each chime still swears “Truth,” in a virgin morn.

Where in the dance of tradition, cycles repeat,
Old tales retold, in every heartbeat,
Change whispers, yet struggles to stay,
In the shadow of the past, another bruised toddler sways.

We yearn for change, in every old chime,
Yet cling to the old, time upon time,
Lasting shift, a path steep and long,
With young blood spilling, and changelessness, where do we belong?

So do bells alone forge the change we seek?
Or but mirror our lack—strong not meek?
Ask not for whom they now toll, ask questions please, and make your answer clear,
Do we change the bells, or keep the year?