by Nick Gisburne
We let Letitia run, but on a rope.
She trots for twenty paces, to the end.
She knows that there is never any hope
Our bulletproof resolve will ever bend.
We let Letitia play, all day, alone.
Her games are simple. Curious, we watch.
To fits of temper now no longer prone,
She smiles. Another win, another notch.
We let Letitia speak, but not for long.
The noises trouble all of us, and her.
She still remembers traces of a song,
But silence is the state we most prefer.
We let her live, but never wonder why.
Letitia means too much to us to die.
