Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The one that has a missing eye,
The one whose face is cracked across,
The one whose hands are raised on high,
And make a shadow albatross.
The ones in national dress, so still,
Frozen as in some sacred stance,
Caught by the dawn upon a hill,
The ballerina whose long dance,
Grinds like the slow stones of god's mill.
They can not help how they are seen,
They do not mean to chill the blood,
But they bear scars of what has been,
The memories of clay and wood,
The echoes of the ancient clock,
That stands behind them on the shelf,
They are the key that fits the lock,
That opens up the hidden self.