Barnabas J. Ramon-Fortune
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The clock strikes midnight
and the magic ends:
the fairy tale is over
and the truth offends.
The coronet, the necklace and the gown
and shawl of ermine trimmed with eider down
to tinsel and to ashen rags have turned;
only a slipper, left in haste
upon the stairway, overturned,
remains unchanged and fancy chaste.
The streets are all deserted, save for mice
scuttling for safety through a broken wall
as Cinderella draw her tattered shawl
around her shoulders'
but she feels at once that this will not suffice
to warm her body or to quell ...