A Curious Beautiful Thing

=== Lyrics ===
‘Come here child,’ he called on to me
Tapping my head
As I wrote fervently in my blue notebook
I didn’t want to miss a thing!
Because he was going to show me magic,
the kind of magic you can create with your own imagination,
the way he used to tell the people at the elderly home next door stories of places that did not exist,
of painted walls and cement hearts,
of a woman’s love, so tender and safe.

I listened to this poet in exile with my senses five
As we sat in front of a 19th Century German antique stove like we were from another time
The wood crackling as it burned, giving its body for our warmth
Ashes falling below like it were the aftermath of a sandstorm
His voice would rise and fall, like the waves at sea on a wintery night
And shadows of white and pink light would dance across his face
like an Indian tribe celebrating the come of dawn

He paused, looked at me, and said ‘You’re such a curious beautiful thing’
then disappeared back into his story,
a story of windpipes and rats that infest the human spirit ,
read against the backdrop of Irish bagpipes.
It was like little children were skipping across his vocal chords on their way to heaven.

And we pined for a heaven where the world was not good enough;
where our words could carry us to someplace else
where no one would ask us where we came from or where we were going
where our bodies were made of grains of sand,
forming and deforming into anything we wanted…or into nothing at all.
He paused again, looked at me and said, ‘you’re free love; you’re very free.’
And disappeared back into his story,
where every story was a decade,
where we would lose bits of who we were and pick up pieces of who we could be.

Now, I know nothing of politics or history,
but in stories, you can make whatever sense you want
out of the randomest of events because you, you are the creator of meaning.
And with that, we are free loves, we are very free.

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