There rises an instrument, transcending all time.
Not carved from wood, nor forged from cold steel,
But birthed in the heart, where emotions congeal.
It carries no bow, needs no external force,
Its power, innate; it is the human voice.
In whispers it wanders, through sorrow and joys,
Echoing epochs, history's own voice.
A lullaby's softness, a leader's firm call,
A lover's sweet nothings, the most potent of all.
It's the cry of a newborn, greeting the dawn,
The laughter of old ones, when dusk is drawn.
It sings of our dreams, in night's silent hush,
It rallies the spirit when troubles rush.
Beyond mere words, in its timbre and tone,
Reside truths of existence, to each voice, uniquely known.
For in its depth and its limitless range,
Lies the saga of humanity, its beauty, its change.
Majestic and humble, both feeble and strong,
It's the instrument that's played us, our whole life long.
For in its echo, our stories unfurl,
The human voice, the song of the world.
