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no song
Cinderella had vision,
as clear as a bell,
she could see around corners
but she wouldn't tell.
She remembered Cassandra's
misfortune and fate,
condemned to the Truth
believed when too late.
So Cindy married
the first honest man
who didn't look in too deep
but had his life planned.
Now only at night,
protected by sleep,
does she remember the future
and quietly weep.
Mona Lisa changed her name,
her clothes and her face.
She did all she could
but could not erase
the scars that remained
from defending the place
where love might still find her
if she could only just wait.
Then time wore away
that hope she had left,
Mona laughed when she cried,
and cried when she laughed.
She trembled in the sun
and froze in photographs,
first drowned herself in Bourbon
and then in her bath.
Silent Mary turned her heart
away from the world.
She was like that
even as a girl.
Everyone loved her,
and she tried everyone
but she never made a choice,
and she sang every song,
but never found her voice.
Mary traveled so far
she forgot her own name
and every place she went
remained the same
as the solitude that rested
in the strength
that grew out of her pain.
But as for me,
I've gone down
this long crooked line
that separates living
from dreaming or dying.
No more wanting or waiting
or wondering why.
Where I’ve gone
there is no Oracle
no map,
no sign
no bargain
and no song.
Stuart Cudlitz
Northampton/San Francisco
1978/1992
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