TOYS Poem by Giovanni Quessep

The cracked cistern, dust and blueness,
Perseveres in this noon.
We children descend and on the bottom
Find tin toys,
A tapestry weaving itself, birds.
This, which is the past, grants us
Its murmur and mystery, and we recommence
Lengthy voyages through its sky.
Let death come that way, as childhood
Came in a toy; and, on descending
Through the shadow to its forest let us find
A tapestry weaving itself eternal, fables.