All around are bells that hum

In glassy clinking taut with strings

A knot is tied around my thumb

Each tug a wave of rippling rings.

The dome of gray that serve as sky

And grunge of green that serve as grass

The net of bells go low and high

And only move when I pull back.

So fixed was I upon the bells

That sometimes echoed something new

Within my lifeless body swells

The thought that someone else could move.

Yet from the dome there came a knock

As soft as wool and sharp as death

It sends the ringing like a flock

Of doves to me from east and west.

Like lions do the bells now roar

“My child, my child, you’re not alone,”

The voice rails tender on the door,

“This empty land is not your home.”

This whisper begs me, “Let me in,

My child, before the darkness comes.”

The clamor quiets yet again

The gentle tug against my thumb.