There were Those who did not see.
Not the fluttering blue spirits, twirling in the wind,
Nor the soft explosions at their bared feet
Among the glimmering moths,
Sewn to her eternal cloth of words.
Works, which They denigrated,
For Them the cloth was linen,
For her, it was of silk.
They slipped upon the syllables,
Which beat in rhythmic songs,
Similar, not to taiko drums,
But like the hummings of a soul,
The virtuosos of a cicada,
Hidden in the leafy canopies of chuckling trees.
The verses taste bitter, so They claimed,
But she savored the sticky sweetness,
Which, when condensed, tasted almost like split figs.
Them, and their perfunctory ideals,
Rehearsing Their acclaimed motif of life,
With no sense of nostalgia.
But the words clung gently,
And it was only the soft ear of the girl that could hear them.
The words whispered a story,
Of worlds and worlds apart,
Which They could never hear,
For their flaxen thread was not to be spun,
And their minds, somberly closed.