art has become the clockwork nightingale
she whispered to all in a gale
in a dream
in between seam and seem
the Princess of everything
old is new again
we ll break no mirrors to bring bad luck
to those unloading us off of the trucks
where we exist in olden scenes
banned with the nightingale
I heard the click and the clack of the trains
telling myself we wont be there again
or here at all except in dreams
gilding the nightngale
on and on in a waltz so sombre
and all the skies
are burnished like umber
its hard to trace the fault lines here
oh how did they make everything disappear
the wind subsides
the seas are stilled
I look for the past
and I always will
when what was beautiful
mattered the most
and now it's all been consigned to ghosts
and I still can hear all by myself
the winding of art by mechanical elves
when I know that once
the world was new
and everything glistened
the morning dew and myself, my soul
was always glad
to think of the beautiful earth we had
my soul my soul my soul.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2023
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