Our Ears Were Numb with the Concert (–survivor to the BBC)

Here it is arctic cold and I have too many rooms

to know where to go, too many

chairs and nowhere, no know how

to sit and love this world, though the sun

beams through the crotch of the mountain

onto the gray rippled fjord like a surge

of woodwind I cannot hear,

for the Marseillaise from Trafalgar Square

numbs my ears, even as I cannot

find the tune of it, afraid to find the tune

that always, even when there was no reason,

made me weep. I weep – allons enfants! – but send hearts

to my daughter – ton aînée n’y sera plus! – tell her

to set her worries aside – liberté cherie – there is still

more good than anything else in the world.

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