Sibylline
Paper, paper to make the words I worry about. To grow them in snow and shape them in a blacksmith’s fire.
They shall be stars, these words, and set among the heavens for the world to read. That darkened cloak, that dazzling sheen, wide enough for the world to see.
And there among the thousand, the millions, staring at the sky, a hand will go up, a hand or two or three. Piercing voices, like glass, like crystalline bells. A chime becomes a choir. They, voices will say, they know, they feel and the sweetest note will ring out “I understand.”
And that voice shall be our brother.
The wilds will become the zoo. Every species will mingle with their own. Separate to keep the diseases contained. But being for the benefit of friendship, there will be casual Friday, when all can run amuck.
They shall be stars, these words, and set among the heavens for the world to read. That darkened cloak, that dazzling sheen, wide enough for the world to see.
And there among the thousand, the millions, staring at the sky, a hand will go up, a hand or two or three. Piercing voices, like glass, like crystalline bells. A chime becomes a choir. They, voices will say, they know, they feel and the sweetest note will ring out “I understand.”
And that voice shall be our brother.
The wilds will become the zoo. Every species will mingle with their own. Separate to keep the diseases contained. But being for the benefit of friendship, there will be casual Friday, when all can run amuck.
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