|
|
| He lets us into a room which must |
| be any room in an ordinary |
| house on a street where buses, perhaps, |
| go past us, or once we arived just |
| to late to watch a parade. This |
| is a city, anyway, where |
| we always seem to be at the wrong |
| season; the weather is bad, and our friends |
| are somewhere else. Here in the room |
| though, there is a fragrance we had all |
| but forgotten from somewhere, and all around |
| us, a great ingathering of lovely things |
| from such long distances of time |
| and space, we marvel to see again, |
| and for once together, what we have failed |
| before to connect. Or so it seems. |
| Does it matter that on a second look |
| the room is empty, or if not that, |
| that the things that are gathered here are things |
| we never saw before? No. |
| With what sweet eloquence |
| these objects speak and ask no reply, |
| for listen, it is we, ourselves, who sing. |
