Do you remember the odd little girl?

Who in quiet wonder watched;

the dancing puppets cry?

What now, where next – as they played.

Role after role in conditioned dreams,

In which she had no part.

With darkened lips and mourning eyes,

Sitting in the looted cave.

Squinting to see the fireplace –

and the fingers there beside.

Speaking in language, riddles dine;

Upon the banks of words nearby.

As in ignorant frustration the rest;

turn their backs and erase the thoughts.

Of the odd little girl and the fingers she caught.

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