Night exhales
Her cold breath in your face
Telling you stories of fear

A nightingale shouts
Her little heart out
For your soul to hear
Where to reach

A rush through the air
Your head tilted back
By a violent grab of your hair

A little bird's flutter
Two lips that stutter
A motionless prayer

A story of Night
That likes to play make-believe

A young pounding heart
That learns within brief
It was played from the start

This tale
Just a dream
Of tonight

In the middle of the middle
of no space
a pair of yellow, childlike eyes,
innocent and with
just a trace of oblivion,
opens

A girl in the streets, *****, untidy hair a scary look on the face plays
a violin facing
all the while
the man who hates it

One by one he
cuts
her strings but she
keeps playing without a single
alteration on her face

Not even after the
very
last
string has - with a final thud - been cut in half
does she stir

And only when -

It's only then that he does realise
grows pale and with wide eyes feels something sting:
the sound never came from the instrument.

He exhales
gives in
surrenders to the
vibrant sound surrounding
his every cell and hair and thought
bathes
in what ought to be
for so long

On her penultimate breath she
pulls out the shiny
new old card in her deck which reads
I am sovereign
holding it up to show
to trigger
another kind of
mass-effect