Teacher

The voice I hear is not of death
And tries to deafen me
With calls that I've already told
Myself to simply free

But what comes back is friendly sound
Of your name by the Sun
That dries me everyday when I
Just teach myself to run

Away from where you may have sat
And moved a slant of hair
That touched the edge of someone's hand
Whose tongue is everywhere

It shoudn't be as you would know
But all voice has an end
And what is mine but tiresome hum
You can't afford to mend.