Alone in the corner of the room
Looking out of the window
With your back to the conversation.
Your ears cannot pick up a sound
And your thoughts peal away in the recesses of your mind,
You have no care right now
Except that anvil in your chest…
(Its back to the conversation)
…And the hammer that beats upon it.
Yet you would that the sound muffle out,
That the silence of this stable
Can be as that of the grave.
But it hurts, with its bangs
It releases heavy pangs,
They cannot be dulled,
These sounds of burden.
Even though your tried, to conceal it, you tried,
You blew your nose, your flu-less nose;
And the sounds began to break
The pangs hurt the more,
Your anvil couldn’t withhold it
And out came the tears.