Poem: I Hear The Banging

I Hear The Banging

but cannot tell who
is beating those drums:
not just an echo,
but the pulsing itself,
a steady anger
that shake the world,
everything carries it,
is infected, takes up
more of it.  Where
did it start? 
It is here now,
is there already, too;
the start is hidden,
but, still, it is here now.
What does the beginning matter
in a world so stirred?

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