She sits up all night, every night
Down in the kitchen, summer and winter
Dressed only in her nightdress,
Seated at the table; silent, thinking.
Sometimes her head is in her hands.
Sometimes she stares off into space.
Sometimes she pulls her hair until the tears come.
She is thinking, only that.
This is the only time she has.
We'd stop her if we were able.
Her mother says, "Why are you such a bad girl,
You used to be so kind and thoughtful,"
Her father says, "You know you only hurt your mother"
If she keeps doing it, they will have to call the Doctor.
Night is the only time I have,
The only time it is quiet,
The only time people are not trying to confuse me
With demands.
Given time, she can think it through,
To the hollow heart of it,
To the lonely lying that makes
Slaves of the children, in order
To conceal the guilt of the old
And their tragedy – for
They can look back on nothing, except
What they can say they own.
She is all that makes them real
To exist they need her.
That is why, in the quiet night,
She tiptoes into the kitchen,
Leaving the light blazing,
Sits down at the table,
In the quiet,
With the tiny room alone and silent,
Dark, floating in a sea of dark,
Only light inside, and she there,
Sitting barefoot in her nightdress,
Sitting at the table,
Only thinking.
When the doctor comes, and finds out,
"She has always been a little strange,"
While her parents weep because
"She is clearly not herself"
When parent secretly conspire with parent
To discredit conscience and reject all criticism as
a shameful sickness
It is then the wealthy patrons of the state,
With numberless murders in their hearts,
Make a public acclaim of the morality
Of self loathing that
Commits one more.