All libraries should have these luminous corners. That space near the blinds, behind the section reserved for the Quattrocento; or that seldom frequented mezzanine, obstructed by boxes and ... [+]
She has the gift of sight, she sees the words
he speaks. He has the gift of song he sings,
with gold he trims her box and he is heard.
She stands in white and waits, he pulls the strings
inside her thumping heart, it leaks and fills
that vessel of timber, of pine. She cries
in pain and he is thrilled. Still he trills
and lines her box. Now watch the ocean rise.
She climbs inside and with a sigh she quells
her mind to sleep, a lullaby will keep
her mind at rest and she will not rebel
against the waves; inside her box, she’ll sink.
A final thump, one that is never heard.
A final echo, forever preserved.
he speaks. He has the gift of song he sings,
with gold he trims her box and he is heard.
She stands in white and waits, he pulls the strings
inside her thumping heart, it leaks and fills
that vessel of timber, of pine. She cries
in pain and he is thrilled. Still he trills
and lines her box. Now watch the ocean rise.
She climbs inside and with a sigh she quells
her mind to sleep, a lullaby will keep
her mind at rest and she will not rebel
against the waves; inside her box, she’ll sink.
A final thump, one that is never heard.
A final echo, forever preserved.