A Cappella
Feb 1 2008


She is an old soul
when she sings to herself;
the sorrow in her voice,
the words of loss and hope and acceptance.
Not the sadness, which every girl feels,
and as swiftly passes.
And not the despair
that hollows you out like a desiccated seed;
buried,
barren.

I’m tempted to believe
in past lives and born again.
In inexplicable wisdom.
And in pale ethereal women,
who sing like fallen angels
stranded on earth
— ageless,
serenely indifferent to their fate.

She will age gracefully, I am sure,
an old lady who glows like a child
— undimmed,
untouched by defeat.
And now, barely more than a girl,
with a voice so clear and sweet.
And with such words of simple beauty,
brings a grown man to weep.