Song of the Prisoner of Chillon

I have lost my Voice
And I hear the doves
Crying but there is no
Vibrato in me.

My vocal folds flap
And are full of holes
And my breath is spent
Like free breezes through
The prisoner’s rags.

If I could leave, perhaps
I’d support my Spirit
With a strong diaphragm
Guide it through golden gates of song
Make a fuzzy feeling in my chest
A resonant buzzing in my head.

When then if my Voice should
Return unshackled, unfettered
Through a clarion throat trilling?

What if I should then prefer
This silent song of despair?