A Giant Called Alabaster.
March 26, 2009
You still take my breath away. Soda lights etching crisp lines on your face. Greys softening the stark white of your skin. And the cellophane blue rising from your crown. Your spine nestling into the hills. Those shutters are nailed shut, save for a few spread open. I can see the hollow inside, dark but it hides no surprise. It’s as if there’s nothing there. Pretty as an eggshell.
What was the colour of your walls before they bleached it white? What stories lies in your marrow, now granite and glass? Did someone leave their human stain on your floor? Are there bones buried in your hills? Is there a tiny grey girl floating on the tips of her toes at night? Do the bright lights scare her away? Where is the echo of a hundred thousand whispers hidden in your shadow dust? Have they swept that away with your memories? What happened to your history?
It’s silly to ask a giant to talk but I wonder what you’d say if you could speak. Your quiet majestic pride looms over unperturbed. All I’ m thankful for is this city’s penchant for large windows, wide enough for me to ignore the bricks slung over my shoulder, swaying to the rumbling of the bus engine.
You still take my breath away.
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