When all was quiet,
when the storm was over,
when the beating of the drums
have all but died down—
when I looked out the window,
when the day ended in an orange glow,
when the pavement refracted the city lights
that have all become so bright—
a rush of words once written
but never spoken invaded my memory
and asked the question:
what are you to me?
You are the keeper of the key
that has unlocked the cage
that had confined me for ages;
set me free in degrees and in stages
until it has come to this:
All will be quiet.
The storm will be over.
The beating of the drums will die down—
but that of my heart never will.