There is no pride, but the voice of two.
The voice that sounded in Homer on his Trojan horses.
The voice of two walking, without their hands together, in the Agora.
The voice that brings unknown scents.
The voice of a tender flower that is born in another copper leaf.
The voice that remains innocent in those who sat together in their elementary school.
The voice that becomes an autumn breeze for two, not many.
The voice you began to hear at age eleven.
The voice without perfumed disguises, the VOICE.