I wonder what enterprise was envisioned
by the foundry which cast your mold --
the writing is obscured by the tarnish on your face --
for from the seed of your vibrant fruit a lineage older than lore extends --
from relics of Assyrian ruins
and artifacts from ancient tombs --
from faded scrawls on parchment scrolls --
through sweeps of ages,
with timeless roots in hammered metal, wood and stone.
Given to speak, old friend,
would you echo your ponderous brethren in Moscow, Mingoon and Peking --
or your carillon cousins in Rotterdam and Bruges --
would you peal the passage of the hours,
mark curfew time,
mourn departed souls,
beckon children to school,
give forth a welcome to houses of worship,
or sound an alarm for menacing shoals?
Would your natural tones mirror the harmonic signature of Westminster's pride --
would the ringing of your voice extol a bloodied banner of freedom?
Speak, my honored friend,
give us anew to savor the wealth of your timbre,
to rejoice in the fidelity of your fellowship with human endeavor.