It was, he told me, at the Yellow Leaves Square
Underneath the blue steeple with the dead clock
It was, he told me, there where he first saw her
She waved with her breath at the Other Sky
The Other Days, the full of lament
She came as they all did, that’s what he told me
Yet something wiggled deep in her shadow
It was, he told me, when she feared
That he was made of bad clay, or sand
Whether, he told me, he would dry her immaculate bloom
She held, he told me, a fire within her palms
Such of the Christians at the pilgrimage
The face was pure white, the picture blurry
But among the pale hands, thin lines sparkled
Such people draw, he told me, in their beginnings.
I knew naught to tell her, he told me, ashamed
Fists tight in the coat, a grin made of snow
It was, he told me, like speaking to an alien son
Afraid you might forget and spill the spell that cracks
And so he sat, he told me, quiet with his chin against his chest
Until the din caught him, caressed the words
And he felt far within his soul the night bending
And like some orbits of a planet without a star, the pace got quicker
How could he speak, he told me, that he lived to die?
How do you tell the old king that his walls have fallen?
How do you tell the sick child there will come no other day?
How could he speak that, unlike her, he could dream not?
It was, he told me once, at the Yellow Leaves Square
Underneath the blue steeple, those hours when it tolls no more
It was, he told me once, there where he only saw her
When smiling he slipped away from her hands and from the light
And shedding tears of frigid sand, he forgot how to love the world.