|
Trapped up in my keeper's room, the pride of the circus tent |
|
Brought there for my safety, to hide among the made-up beds |
|
Outside magic filled the carefree eastern streets |
|
I could feel a stomach churn beneath the polished teak |
|
They all dressed as swallows with feathers in their hair |
|
And all that night they laughed and danced |
|
While the walls shook the gas chandeliers |
|
I trumpeted and I roared, but no one seemed to hear |
|
Shoulder blades beneath the water slid closer every year |
|
Men in suits proudly talked of the pointed peak |
|
Pillars of flames built armies who were hungry and had to eat |
|
They all dressed as swallows and songbirds bearing gifts |
|
And I could feel it in my bones |
|
Something out there somewhere had to give |
|
Narrows canals no longer flow, and nothing happens here |
|
And even in the afterlife an elephant can't forget |
|
Skull and bones of a Bengal tiger wash in the sea |
|
A reminder of that August night when the Island disappeared |
|
They all dressed as swallows and songbirds on that eve |
|
Falls of ashes pouring down as the ocean turned into a milk-white sea |
