do you know of echo the oread?
whose harmless passion did collide with wrath,
for this mountain nymph did make the queen mad,
such her life was sentenced a silent path;

given the gift of the last words she heard,
echo was to only repeat these notes,
for her own sweet voice was without a word,
only to be found in other mens' throats;

i think of echo this late winter night,
and all the men who did silence her voice,
who have made my own sharp throat seize up tight,
making me feel like i did not have choice;

i tell you, echo, do not let them win,
discard their words and shoot them a dark grin.