Manzana Perdida

Shush, now
     child, hush & listen:
Only if you’re quiet can you hear them –
There’s canaries in the coalmine singing down below.
But why, Miss,
      does your daughter go on crying?
Does she not find the warbling pretty?
So like the stars,
      they don’t know how beautiful they are –
           Cold & Dim & Sad & Distant.

Just now,
      the Masters, all,
go on flirting with the rooftop wind:
      eavesdropping on the prayers of broken men.
And the stars can hear the whispers,
      they just don’t know how to answer.

Why, miss, does the baby cry?
Is it for the Apple that she lost?
      AH! But there it is:
           floating gently down the stream.
Esta su manzana perdida, Milagra,
     bobbing soft unto the darkness of the caves.
Shush, now baby,
     hush & listen:
I have two apples in my bag –
     one for eating,
          the other for the Virgin.
But why, Miss, does she go on?
Is it for the innocence she lost?
     The moment she came out wailing?

But she has no teeth with which to eat it –
     perhaps she suffer from the gnashers budding through her rosey virgin flesh…
     was it just enough to hold it, then?
Would she now, then, rather she had never been so tempted?

In the beginning was the Word,
      wrote Prester John,
           chthonian rumblings stirring up the deep.
The Word was God & with God dissatisfied by complacence
and placed there caged birds singing from the Earth.
Chordivae callings reminding us there’s life.
It’s the sudden quiet that should scare you, dear,
     not their elegies to freedom.
Just as if the stars all fell from out the sky,
     quickly one-by-one.
Their disappearance fright’ning;
     the darkness blinding;
          the silence deaf’ning.
Not a thing to wish on,
      no thread of hope,
Not a vocal Chord to remind us we’re still breathing.
But as above, so below.
And as the Masters go on flirting with the roof-top wind,
the vagrant princes go on mumbling from their park-bench thrones.

There’s beauty in the lamentations of the caged birds.
But it’s when their voices fall silent we should really listen.
For have they really died then?
Or given up all hope and left us?

Shush, now
     baby, hush & listen:
Give life its meaning;
     find beauty in the suffering.
That Apple that you lost was just for looking.

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