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.