Songs From Silver Street
Sweetest words long dead in time,
All stripped of warmth as a phantom’s mime,
Do the glass door act on the stage called mind.
It seems the theater hall is not a place to unwind.
Yet the words beam through blurring rain,
The streetlight excavates the narrowest lane.
The dust and mud give in to the zeal,
Silver Street returns the gift peal after peal.
If ever two windows have shared a thought,