Nedelja, Januar 16, 2011

wayfarers on the

wayfarers on the far side of our square used to stop before number 37 and wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them. Kleam, kleam, kleam, kleam, it would pipe pleasantly. Bhong. Bhong. Bhong. Solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity. Kungglang. Kungglang. Kungglang. Kungglang. Kungglang. That was a duet in the middle register. Then from some faroff aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfin silversmith, fast, furious, and tiny pingpingpingpingpingpingpingping. We surmised that a retired swiss bellringer had secluded himself in our

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