Without tradition, there is a loudness
A violent volume that pierces

A fireless thought
that renders the dancer’s shadow still

A shriek that veils the bold echoes
of the ancient chamber,
which never needed electricity to be

Scrape your fingertips slowly along the stone

Stare brazenly through the sacred glass

Stomp your heels on the worn wood
And silence their madness

– Rye Brayley