my city from above...

Sometimes out walking, on a country road
or in a quiet green forest,
you hear scraps of voices, perhaps they’re calling you,
you don’t want to believe them, you walk faster,
but they catch up quickly,
like tame animals.

You don’t want to believe them then later
on a busy city street
you’re sorry you didn’t listen
and you try to summon up
the syllables, the sounds, and the intervals between them.

But it’s too late now
and you’ll never know
who was singing, which song,
and where it was drawing you. - A. Zagajewski, Out Walking