I heard a song on the radio today about a young girl who lived in Paris. She had grown up in poverty and had graduated from the Sorbonne. Her many hours were spent copying paintings by Picasso. She would spend weekends at St. Moritz in the winter and along the Mediterranean beaches during the summer heat. She was an attractive girl who had many friends. She was well versed in the arts and knew all the important people. Her picture had appeared in many newspapers and trade magazines and her life was abundantly successful.
The young man who sang his song had known her as a girl. He had lived with her in poverty and they had exchanged feelings and shared experiences together. It bewildered him how his very close friend could have changed so much. Yet he doubted that the change was real.
So he asked himself in his song what thoughts drifted through the mind of this very beautiful model, this very real person when she lay awake in her bed at night, in the darkness of her room, her infant dreams, and the depth of her sleep.
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We Lack a Word
PoetryA COLLECTION OF RHYTHMIC PROSE AND POETRY "The reader forms an attachment to the author/narrator as the parts meld into a story. The majority of the work is one - to two-page vignettes that create almost a novel in verse... Absorbing, an other...
