I am sounding my song.
It is a somber song.

Yet sprinkled with colors,
Hopeful colors.

Like the sparkling shards of pure color.
Refracted by the hexagonal prisms of the
Early morning Siberian snow.

Each, elegant, crystalline, fragile in hue.
Each imbued with its own vision of hope.
Hope of redemption by extreme unction.

I have been exiled.

I am penitent.
I am content.
No privileged!
To gaze up transfixed,
By the gleaming brass ring.

And the jangle of my jailers bright keys,
And the jangle of electroplated keys.
And the scintillating tinkling of the keys.