Masada, Masada.
Masada is always smiling. Always smiling, even if his eyes are crying. Sad. Melancholy smile, but he is happy, happy.
Masada, about him, his heart is pure. Just like snow, but he cries easily, inside. And about him, about us, he told me he wanted to fly. He wanted to be part of the sky.
He lived in a small but wonderful house. It was white, pure white, and snowy kittens lived with him. Their soft and furry paws, poking playfully at his legs, mewling, frolicking in the sunlight that flowed through the long, narrow windows. I still remember him, sitting at his piano, long ivory fingers flowing and splashing across the keys. And the music, the music was as pure too - even if it did seem sad, just like him, just like him.
“Masada… cookies, for you.”
Masada, he always was like that. His body, clad in black garments, and hair that reached to his chin, parted in the middle so his face always was covered, covered but not quite, not quite. He looked sinister that way, but he was nice. He always was like that. Soft, tender, warm. Just like sunlight. Masada patted me.
I watched him, chewing silently, watched his slender back as he composed his last piece. Kittens, at my feet, meowing and meowing, their small bells that hung around their puny necks chiming, chiming, chiming.
His death bells chimed that way, too.
Masada is always smiling. Always smiling, even if his eyes are crying. Sad. Melancholy smile, but he is happy, happy.
Masada, about him, his heart is pure. Just like snow, but he cries easily, inside. And about him, about us, he told me he wanted to fly. He wanted to be part of the sky.
He lived in a small but wonderful house. It was white, pure white, and snowy kittens lived with him. Their soft and furry paws, poking playfully at his legs, mewling, frolicking in the sunlight that flowed through the long, narrow windows. I still remember him, sitting at his piano, long ivory fingers flowing and splashing across the keys. And the music, the music was as pure too - even if it did seem sad, just like him, just like him.
“Masada… cookies, for you.”
Masada, he always was like that. His body, clad in black garments, and hair that reached to his chin, parted in the middle so his face always was covered, covered but not quite, not quite. He looked sinister that way, but he was nice. He always was like that. Soft, tender, warm. Just like sunlight. Masada patted me.
I watched him, chewing silently, watched his slender back as he composed his last piece. Kittens, at my feet, meowing and meowing, their small bells that hung around their puny necks chiming, chiming, chiming.
His death bells chimed that way, too.
