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.