I met her in a niche of the ancient bough,
Her name was Carla; she told me so,
That was Carla- rosy red,
Beneath the silent, brown bowed head.

Clinging to a hopeless faith,
A long and silent fruitless wait,
But heaven sees what goes on,
Golden thunder, blue sky- born.

Wonder cairns form tall arches,
Hanging from the listless branches,
Falls to the ground around,
Loving Carla, with her rhythmic sound.

Sixty songs all burn out too,
There’s nothing for her to sing anew,
So she lies in the shade of the blistering birch,
While hymns for her echo from the church.

Safety forsakes her for better times,
The world gets away with their bitter crimes,
But she waits; grows much more,
Grows her wings and tries to soar.

But can she escape, beauty-bound,
Because of the treasure that she found?
Because Carla, with her mute language,
Grows sad, and gives way to rage.


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