“May you hear every song in the Forest…And if ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the trees… May you stay in the arms of the Angels.” From—‘Lullaby for a Soldier’ (Arms of the Angels) by Dillon O’Brian
They gather—arms length apart and touching yet never flesh feeling—just being the same as each cold breath catches and inhales—exhales steam across a longer line of waiting and hoping and living and dying and thinking of praying of leaving or staying until few cents ago coffee warm warded away cold from form—vision search began again or ended for the evening bright of Street magic and Star-ship’s light.
They are these same—the you of me and the I of them and longer lines both start again—many more than were—when workers gathered here and sweat sweetened voices strong to hear and labor filled now silent nights with metal fires so bright to eyes that strained to see the darkened night and wash away the rust of steel and shrieks of altered shifts and morning stirred the sleeping ones to start another day of sweat sweetened voices strong to hear and fresh came the strength of labors lost and won and lost again.
They gather here for rooms-to-find-to-fill—have filled again and nourishment—gone again and others line the grates of grate-covered heat—blown from Calimesa underground to ground—around those standing watch or asleep in one side-warm and one side cold or one side dead or one side gone. Again; the living and dying and the thinking of dying and praying of leaving or staying another moment or second or minute or hours of night-time’s twinkle or morning wrinkle—where once flesh was fresh and spirit smoothed times of ages changes or faded lights—start and stop and start again.
Dance across these flashes—lighting ways beyond night sight and grate warmth—blown upward from far beneath long sidewalks—a few bundled folk and empty clatters of empty bottled sighs and dies into another locked out night of old coats and steam and snow. Scarf and scrapes and scares and prayers unlisted— unlicensed—unheard—unspoken and spoken again to gathers of dreams among star streams traveled—untouched—unhinged and again the disconnected prays of homeward places or warmer spaces and not tonight and available on the bright slide of tomorrow’s light.
Never broken these dark—park—places tucked on down-low—beneath the ruined twists of short time pasts when hill house reached sky-high and bright furnaces smelted-melted steel to pouring—porous casted wheels and the sparking wheels of plenty ones—turned twenty hours days of sparks into things usefully—useful into gains and losses—tossing cares to windward sails as hoisted spinnaker—boats raced wind and waves beyond lake bay and deep water and play…
Aminadora once visited Calimesa City. She watched the twirl and swirl of living and the dying waves of folk-sided hopes and the fear of tears and another day passed without the end of gray cold and dark snow. She touched the grate of heats and slept close to other dreamers without a dream among the few. At winter’s end— Aminadora left City-side… Soul seeping—drained the sucking of nuances from madness and soon began an Era of Distraction…For a few moments—we do stop here—to help little ones become big ones—donchathink?
And! Beautiful you are…
‘Lullaby for a Soldier’—performed by Maggie Siff
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