Nine o'clock on a quiet Wednesday eve
what could happen if I walked out
disappeared forever - in lala land
to Shangri la - to Hades front gate,
oh wait he doesn't have one
and that Tibetean paradise exist not,
but my little French house's walls
of at least a yard thick presents itself
poignantly - presently
it does not want to be ignored.
Here I have stood for 700 years
and I am still standing -
I demand seriously to be taken
seriously for granted - I am
therefore I exist and don't forget
I shall still be here when you are gone!
Walk out - beat it go - but you seem
to enjoy my shelter like the others
countless, I tell you, most of them
fairly normal hardworking people.
I can remember in the 14 c the nuns
had built an adjacent building
to their nunnery - and I was it.
Sister Cecilia - our prioress
was devoted to her little flock
some of them sheltered the descendant
of Adalais - the owner of our church.
In 1637 I recall a baker and his wife
they made bread and love every day
and there were children running
around my heavy foundations.
Later in 1747 we had some bad years
and one man hanged himself from the rafter.
It is still there, the mark, although
you would not be able to find it.
A sole owner of the late 17000
was a curmudgeon and a drunk.
But his voice use to ring through
the walls - just when your daughter
just sang for your friends two weeks ago.
So dearest owner, stay and enjoy
the life of my history and I shall
yield more of it - when I feel like it.
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