In the old
attic of dreams forgotten & yesterday´s plans,
Of finding
old books & lace that turns to dust in my hands,
Disintegrating
memories of lives lived, now dead & gone,
Of childhood,
dancers & thespians & of singer´s lost song,
Raiment patched
by mother, Gran´s scarf with love knitted,
Old fancy-dress
silks, Roman helmets, in games to be kitted,
Musty scents,
smells of old perfumes, the dead fingered dust,
Sun tiptoeing
in fearfully, showing bronze tarnished & old rust.
On the echoes
of floorboards, the stamping of Alhambra´s Ole,
Now, castanets
cruelly silenced & old feet, no longer at play,
I spy in the corner,
boots of cracked leather & laces well frayed,
Soles, by day
toiling hard land, at night they dancingly swayed,
Where are those
far away feet, of those busy lives well lived?
Gone now to heaven
& dust, passed, buried, truly well sieved,
Those old feet
in old boots, now dancing all sins cleansed away,
Leaving in my
attic, just the whispered echoing of cheered Ole’.
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