"curator" poems
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
The mannequin faceless,
Clothed in gold
With hands pandering svelte,
Remains an admired inanimate,
Albeit, atop whispers to a girl,
A 4-foot flower 3-feet my right,
Fretting and stumped;
Extrinsic a label – “undesirable.”
The mannequin faceless,
Her and hollow –
A towering nose above, stands
Opaque ivory, scarred come
Synonymous eyes with a symmetrical
Soul, assumed plastic perfection
And more importantly,
Soon to be sale.
The mannequin faceless
Convinced her new friend,
Her lesser, lopsided,
And natural not-so counterpart
To consume,
“Eat me, “eat me,” “eat it all,”
And then, “binge some more.”
The mannequin faceless
SCREAMS,
“BUY!” Amongst the other torments –
Born both fingers that can’t move and
The thumbs that shuffle, “One’s,”
To the girl that was never,
“Good enough;” so shared the
Tabloid’s mouth.
The mannequin faceless demands
And DEMANDS nothing less than to
Buy, starve, suffer and sacrifice
So that every “broken body,”
May embody polymer, and for a price,
A not so fair trade whilst
Considering old man gold,
The curator of conundrum
And the plastic he’s created.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
Eyes do speak.
It's funny how they perceive the things around.
The broken conversations heard by fully complexed ears.
I believed that I'd be ok.
The conclusions that eyes draw.
Never making sense of the words heard.
I believed it to be my biggest mistake.
Falling for the beautiful images seen.
Following sight, my first love.
Pain is often beautiful, layered one color after another.
The stories that unfold given enough time.
The initial cause and effect, forgetting the love immortalized before anything
was ever heard.
The intimacy that eyes will only understand/
Speak to me and I'll fully understand.
She'd never been in love.
I gazed intensely
Still I pursued
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Two creatures' eyes have seen the sun,
and now their lids are filled with dust.
But if their eyes were blue, or brown,
I cannot tell, and yet I must.
St Claire's an Amiable Child
who sleeps secure and snug as Grant,
but who can tell me of his eyes?
(The city parks curator can't.)
And Johnson had a cat named Hodge
who fed on oysters, and was fine;
his coat was black, but not his eyes,
whose shade I cannot now divine.
Two creatures hold me in their gaze,
and thoughts of it I can't dislodge:
the nature of your eyes, my friends,
your sleeping eyes, St Claire and Hodge?
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
Now,
We are mellow.
Having spent the evening exploring the threads of friendship.
That had come adrift of warp, weft and weave.
Time and distance had
silks, snag-tagged-torn,
on the bustling-busy,
hectic-hustling of work
and family.
Teasing-taunt,
needle-gnawing,
small, gap-rip-rents
in the snug comforter
that is... the wonder of us.
Us, so many secrets woven. So many, nights of tissues and sobbing tears.
Darning in daring exploits. Cutting away knotted,
fear-angry-scream-fighting feuds.
Cutting work, for days of delight and nights of desperate yearning.
We used anything at hand, rough wools, pieces of string and twines.
To weave a blanket,
to hide us from life's storms.
We were,
so young, so strong, recklessly-brash,
stupidly-joyous
and braveheart-fools.
And now, time and age,
has softened our work. Felted and fuse-melded,
the fibres into a beautiful entity.
That we store-save in the heart's cupboard,
of special and precious things.
It is an heirloom of sorts.
We bring it out,with occasional, humble-grace,
to be dandled and stroked with reverence.
Caressed and cossetted are our memories held within the abstract weave.
We are the dwindling
of a youthful exuberance
flung-thrown-heaved
to the wild winds.
So now, we are grateful to be curator-custodians of the retrospective nature
as we augment-append
and reiterate-repair.
A new thread here,
now,
embellish-embroider,embed
and tatt-stitch.
My son and your twin girls, squeezed, splashing
into your tiny bathtub
big-grin-giggling in the gurgling water.
Our future, here and now,
is the brightest of silks,
Our past, mellow and yielding in,
the luminent opulence,
angelically-asleep in,
the other room.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
he told me,
**you are the strangest creature
that I have ever laid eyes on.**
and what could I say?
I am a curator of slick thoughts,
cigarette thin and clinging
like mad to my small sense of resolve.
a stranger in a house of ghosts,
writing phantom epitaphs and
combing through scientific journal articles.
I am no mystic, but a logical anomaly.
stranger things have happened.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
you were never an artist;
I'm sorry but it is true.
once, you sketched me
(sharpie on loose leaf, 2013)
and while I was touched by the gesture
[labor of love that it was]
it really looked more like your older brother.
now, your art is shared for mere
moments
(stylus on snapchat, 2014)
but you are still no artist.
you are an auteur, a lover, a curator,
finessing your homages to your youth
[pokemon, zelda, batman]
you may not be an artist
but I love you all the same.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
Days of Anger,
days of bitterness.
I was raised in love
in a decade of togetherness.
A doctor, A teacher,
A curator of my youth.
A general conquering
my everlasting ruth.
Her anger was the thunder,
Her smile was the sunshine.
the world would be a wonder
if it had a mother like mine.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Default African,
Yes I am,
And a disgrace for that matter,
Yet African with Katekism,
I am supposed to be,
Come rain, sunshine or high waters,
I have betrayed you Africa,
I have 'back-stabbed' you in the face,
And spit rotten phlegm in the wound,
Giant mother,
With this badge of slavery I now proudly wear,
**** me.
Never have I washed my father, Or mother,
Never have I washed my grandfather or grandmother,
Neither of these have I ever dared looking after,
Yet today,
I assume total custodianship and curator-ship,
I take care of some grandfather and grandmother,
Somebody's father,
Somebody's mother,
Somebody's grandfather,
Somebody's grandmother.
Only yesterday I was told,
Your father and mother passed away last year,
And so did your brothers and sisters,
And they were all buried like dogs,
Their burials were the talk of town,
How could you let that happen,
How could you,
And I am these enermies' comfortable door mate.
My grandfathers were colonised,
Because of our rich land,
And now I have been extensively colonised,
Because of their pound,
Because of wanting to be a Westerner – overseas,
Away from you,
Continent of respect and dignity,
Continent of dance and song,
A continent pregnant with untold tales.
My sick mind has been colonised,
Graduating me into a nefarious modern commercial slave,
Just but an echo of an old tune,
A worse slave than my ancestor,
The Kunta Kintes,
I am a cheap voluntary slave,
Who has been gratuitously deserted by his values,
The African values.
I stand accused before myself,
I am a cumbrous culpable default African,
An African who has lost his ebullient Africanness,
A charlatan ********** African on a detour,
A dismantled, shameless self destroyed pimple,
A nauseating counterfeit second hand African,
An extraneous stain on Africa's underwear,
I am of as much value to Africa,
As is an over- used ****** to a filthy growth point **********
Regrettably, that is the African I have become.
How I wish I washed my father and mother,
How I wish I washed my grandparents,
How I wish I took care of them,
The wish is killing me badly,
I may as I have run away from you Africa,
But never from Africanness,
Litres of your blood flows in body pipes,
I am because you are,
I am a default African.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC
A vulture of voluptuous
a curator of curves
he walks
and stalks
and talks
then balks
like I'm the one absurd
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
and doesn't know the crew
I never tell her my story
She reads every page herself
She never touches the exhibits
the essences of me
elegantly
arranged upon the shelves
She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad shes just a friend
and never knew the crew
She paces in silence
Slight smirk under her eyes
As she wanders around my gallery
galaxies
analogies of abnormal realities
Seen from within the guise
She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And will never know the crew
Every so often she pauses
Her footsteps resound
The curator looks up interested
and solicited
a reaction uninhibited
From a mind profound
She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And doesn't want to know the crew
Her analysis is always unique
And as if she was the artist
The curator thinks, in retrospect
she is correct.
As she walks out the exit
Her path is marked by a trail of stardust.
She always knows
She always knows what to do
I'm glad she's just a friend
And is unknown to the crew
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
What I learned yesterday...
The curator, surrounded by object d'art,
Told me a story, how he had to re-learn to see.
Da Vici said,
Paint what was visible and what is invisible.
Fancy and fantasy, same Latin root.
We are all subject to the tyranny of
Form and function, unable to find the time
For seeing beauty in places easy-dismissed
As pretty but pointless.
Today, they preach against gold, delicacy,
Beauty for beauty's sake,
Want clean lines of steel and gray.
Dismiss the objects that are glorious
For the patient skill needed to create,
But have no purpose obvious.
What I learned yesterday?
The next and the next time
I visit an art museum,
Will walk the corridors
Aimlessly but purposed.
Will stop before a single creation,
Matters not the period,
Sculpture, painting, statuary, jewelry.
That would have been prior ignored,
As dated, just another...pretentious piece,
Among the twenty like it on the wall or in the case.
Before that objet I will sit,
For hours, till I have understood
Each pore, inflection of what
Inspired a man to labor over it.
If I am disciplined,
Might get ten or twelve done in a year.
But now understand, that there will be greater value,
In taking ten randomly, living with them
Body and soul, and treasuring their nuances.
When I return home,
My art to write, seeing new in a new way,
Perhaps I will set aside the urge to fast complete,
Instead, craft and care, labor over each sound, syllable,
Kiln bake, hand paint, each letter.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
My mind
down dusty corridors, i wander
everywhere lie the discarded thoughts
of a disorganized and undisciplined mind
still its called a thought...
reminiscent of a once busy museum
now deserted and seemingly long forgotten
Then turning a corner,i find myself
suddenly in the midst of a hive of
activity.
A new Curator has come with fresh ideas and input
now my thought has become serious thinking...
which I poured on a piece of blank paper
hmm... now read what an impressive thought
I think it is ...
written on a piece of white sheet
After some painful moments of writer's block..
from once a very disorganized mind..
Walla... a poem written by me at last
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
The Greyhound bus that paused for a moment and couldn’t run
Donald Coffin a.k.a. Dad bus pioneer was no longer among
It was Dad’s soul in the Heavenly flow
It was God throughout being in the know
Donald Coffin a.k.a. Dad as I called him
A man with buses on his mind
It didn’t matter the name and shape
The fact it was a bus and that was enough
I had the opportunity to buy two buses from Mr. Coffin’s collection being the GM PD-4106 and GM PD-4107
They will always be the remembrance of Dad’s life and his bus involvement
The key word is “Commitment”
It was the Bus lesson taught being bus advice
It was Dad’s delight that enlightened me with enthusiasm
His knowledge being experience
I remember a time when Mr. Coffin being Dad was the Greyhound Curator, and the time I assisted him in getting pictures that he was unable to get
Dad was a dedicated bus pioneer
I will remember Dad the way buses that inspired him
He captured my understanding and his legacy of empowerment
Buses will continue to run
It’s Donald Coffin’s spirit that will always be among
Thanks Dad in your wisdom share
I see whispers of love flying in the air
Your time had arrived
Heaven had prepared the highway being the direct route of your resting place
The Greyhound bus was your last ride
It was your chariot to Heaven being your stride
Bus headlights flash in your honor
Horns blow that your bus work is finished
Dad you captivated me, and you will always be distinguished
I will never forget you
Until we meet again.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
In every art and artifacts,
I'll still find that is pleasing to my eyes,
Like seeing lychee that makes want to crave,
Craving for resentment in someone's eyes,
Turns out I was seeing myself in solitude,
This time, it was no ordinary day,
I think of every word I have to say,
But I had none to lay,
Instead of laying in those eyes,
Thinking myself what I bargained,
To be the highest bidder.
Meaning to say, I wasn't looking at any art,
I saw something that pleased my eyes,
In a quiet place that made it felt like home,
Glass panes are all I can see but a single sight to see.
A sight that I won't lose till its wings spread
A statue that I'm willing to mold by a thread
Humanity restored in my eyes.
By a single whip of your coiffed hair
Like the morning brew that struck me
By the color of your hair, that is full of bliss
Nevertheless, I'll still get lost in those eyes
Making every gaze in my mind
A dream that i made, to get lost by the so-called life
Moments that i'll spend, for me to keep it from being tainted
Savoring every beauty till i faint.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 9:17 AM UTC
it's hard not to bump into ghosts in
your house. you've been here
fifty years, or more, and there's
time caught in the marigold
wallpaper; minutes stuck between the
pages of the books you keep
but never read.
you're the unwilling curator
of your own museum-
you have stacks and stacks of
gardener's weekly,
- could build a fort out of them -
but instead sit in the middle looking
lost. you ask after people who've been
dead years, and perhaps it's because you've
seen them in the mirror.
(outside is the tree your
husband planted in the 60s,
spliced out of two and thus
unique. you stare at it sometimes,
and maybe you're wishing for
something-
or maybe it's just out of
habit).
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
I own one eye a known
Wanderer and an insolent
Student
Its twin
Formed from the first’s
Forgotten breath is as
Static and wide as
Our very Pacific
One eye set upon the tropic
The lizard mineral surfacing
To embrace salt laughing
One then upon our Arctic
The axis eternally poised
To blast and bristle
Our iris unbending gravity
Secreted within ridicule
Eye the Equator as She duels
The very patient curator over
Aqua Photo Helio Fuego
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Biology was their favorite subject
The frog pinned
to the polyurethane
grinned
a mask of death
But the smile was wider
to those that wielded the scalpel
the cut so precise
to examine the internal organs
exposed beneath a bated breath
Lycaenidae, Nymphalidae,
Papilionidae, Pieridae, Riodinidae
They are all butterflies
but they become one by the sword
the sharp taste of steel
that bound them, spread eagled
beneath the smile of their Lord
beneath their Lucite coffin
they never become bored
Ancient bones of ancient beings
beg to be laid to rest
beside all those that
fall close to extinction
because they have been there
and done that
and are now displayed
in their very finest
Trophies that line the walls
behind glass and whispers in the hall
A hushed reverence that is displayed
while the suit walks tall
wondering why
we should be a hater
When all he has done is preserve
a world gone mad and has come undone
Like the bones of his first victims
he brings life back
in a macabre display
He stands tall, but walks alone
yesterday
a Serial Killer
today
a Museum Curator
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
I tried to be a journalist,
but I am not.
I tried to be a curator,
but I am not.
I tried to be a writer,
but I am not.
I tried to be a poet,
but I am not.
I tried to be a human,
And then — I slept soundly.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
this message is brought
by those who fought
for lover's lane is now a vacant lot
I heard that at it's birth
lover's lane encompassed the earth
like a grand equator
the ultimate curator
of all things love
but then a dark mass came from above
it was a ball of cynism
and under the haze of malaise
created a schism
then like ripples in a pond
the schism ripped at the bond
that held lover's lane together
maybe it was cynism that allowed the darkness to see
that lover's lane was only real,
because of ideals held within you and me
the darkness knew it's route
was to first take root in the minds of the people
then gives it's followers the suit
and make the corporation it's steeple
the suits were faithful to their creed
called the gospel of greed
yet there was still a need
that they had to feed
happiness
that money could not buy
and believe me they would try
and try, and try
and try
deep down their apathy
was agony
happiness the supreme ideal
but all they wanted was to feel
anything
they went to their vices
such as cellular devices
that created a virtual reality
that could make them virtually happy
for once they could virtually say
they were virtually ok
virtually
not in reality
the reality was they were desperately trying to forget
they were sardines trapped in the net
the net was growing too
misery likes company
but really loves a corporation
but what were we to do?
it had spread across the nations
lover's lane was shrinking
all we were thinking
was could love ever thrive agian?
could it even survive? when...
the darkness was so thorough
containing lover's lane to merely a borough
we tried to make them see
all that love can be
we tried with all forms of art
wrote, and spoke from the heart
but the suits were indifferent
they just didn't care
I realized then and there
that I'd be just one of the few numerals
at loves eminent funeral
wearing a suit
and after a tear, I'd start my commute
to be the corporation's next recruit
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
So many words
Such little meaning
Its not your words that tell me your feelings
Don’t have to guess the way that you’re leaning
I’ll crack the sky or at least the ceiling
So many lines
Some silver lining
I am the alchemist synthesizing
Live with the knowledge that you’re declining
While I ascend
Uproot the uprising
I am the king
I am the diamond
I am the one who says so, the Simon
I am above
I am the legend
I am the force that drives every engine
I am alive
I’m more than alive
I am the spark igniting the *** drive
I am the fiber
I am the source code
I am the dynamite set to explode
So many gods
So many temples
It’s not the gods that make me a-tremble
Translate the power
Speak to the devil
He is the writer
I am the pencil
So many guns
Such little patience
I am a curator of the ancient
I am the book
I am the history
I am the meaning
I am the mystery
I am the giant
I am the titan
I am the hidden strength
I’m the lion
I am the love
I am the hatred
I am the ******
I’m the naked
I am the tomb
I am the symbol
I am the complex
I am the simple
I am the rule
I am the riddle
I am the equal
I am the middle
Such little love
Such little content
Is it unfair to ask where the love went
I touched the body
I touched the soul
I mastered the secret to self control
Such a disgrace
Such paranoia
You are the dark, Francisco de Goya
Die with the damage
****** and grotesque
You’re the decree
A half-muttered protest
I am the one
I am the master
I am the one survivor they’re after
I am the hunter
I am the hunted
I am the needed
I am the wanted
I am alive
I speak for the living
I am the one who’s taking and giving
I am the blight
I am the plague
I am the one who needs to be saved
So many strings
Such orchestration
I am the heart of every nation
I am the puppeteer
I’m the puppet
I am the base, the peak, and the summit
So many worlds
So many timelines
I am the multiverse
I’m the road sign
I am the white
I am the black
I am the siege
I am the attack
So many words
Such little meaning
Its not your words that tell me your feelings
Don’t have to guess the way that you’re leaning
I’ll crack the sky or at least the ceiling
So many lines
Warning the caution
I am the single choice
I’m the option
Die with the truth that you’ll be forgotten
I loved a world but that world was rotten
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
~for Cathy Leff, curator~
no bugler blaring ‘pay attention’ to me,
no emergent bad news bearish telephone cell call of an absurd tonal,
no alarm clock retaliating agin a humans daily defying double-slap,
no young children sneaking in, with a guard dog in accompaniment,
joy-ending a deep parental sleep from the exhaustion they induced
but as if shot, the humans burst into alertness,
from prone to moan, they instantly revert, becoming **** Erectus,
gasping from shock troop dreams, and a chest-pounding message,
a whisper growing, an ever increasing crescendo, an unnatural law,
an unsullied foot-stomping battle cry that self-terrorizes, undeniable:
write me, your poem, write me now!
ah, it must be 5:00 am...
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
The Vault stands resolute
Against acidic Time.
It must have much to say.
There is much it must have seen.
It's steady, stony gaze
Is all that now remains
To stand guard over nothing;
Duty-bound to stay.
What resides within?
It is aching to become known.
What resides within?
We rush the beckoning gate,
We push and pry and pull.
Today is a first for the Vault:
For the first time it loses a fight.
The darkness confronts us,
Accusing and severe.
Apprehension crawls up our spines:
What has been hidden here?
What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?
We set foot inside,
Our steps unnervingly loud.
The cold sun nips our heels.
The darkness caresses our brow.
What's that ahead?
I believe it is light.
The faintest of glimmers:
Thin golden thread.
What resides within?
It is aching to be known.
What resides within?
With the greatest of caution
We open this new door.
Beyond is a strange old creature,
Back to the wall, sitting on the floor.
His flesh is pale and creased,
But his eyes are anything but idle.
"What is this place?", we ask.
His answer comes with a smile:
"This is Man's Vault.
It is a reservoir of what we were
Long before the missiles or the disease
Or by both we all were burned".
"Who are you?"
"I am the Curator, the Chronicler.
This place is of my own work.
I've spent day and night here,
Building it with record, picture and book."
"What may we do with it?"
"That is for you alone to decide.
The collection must pass to new hands.
My purpose here has been served.
In this present realm I will not much longer bide."
On concluding his final, heavy quatrain,
He breathed his long life out.
And the liveliness from out his eyes did drain
For several minutes, we stood in silence.
As a weight pulled down on our hearts.
A race had died before our eyes,
And left to us its inheritance.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC