Thew Reason Poem by jan oskar hansen

The bells you hear, when busy voices briefly ceases,
are made of brass and polished, at dawn, by the spittle
of seven deeply religious monks in the far away Tibet;
where they use yak butter in their morning tea.

When first light strikes the bells there is and explosion
of the colours, blue and green, that lives inside the sun,
without these tones the seas would have been dull as
a rain puddle, outside Gare de Lyon, a fall afternoon.