by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on November 20, 2025
Portfolio
Enter the chorus of children; octaves fill
the empty halls of pews. There are no ill
feelings towards their parents who miss
the show: they work hard and slip a kiss
here or two. While we wait for the hands
of guardians to praise the tones and band
that line the walls, the roads are silent.
Snowfall dots the lane, but we can see giant
clumps of white pushed across the way.
The wait for a melting sun to return one day.
Ring, ring the world anew, flush the dirt.
We should all send a message of hurt,
ripped pages, that follow broken fingers
of bellboys who work behind the thinkers
of their age. The unheard voices of dawn
continue through the black, their life gone
with the sun; their dreams done with light.
Now, we enter into a world of constant spite.
Bells rung, songs sung, as the parents bring
siblings to the concert, sudden cries spring
from the crowd. A silent night, a holy hour,
to show us the wonderful divine power.
One that transcends the prayer books
and conductors—it offers a pretty look.
Sit down for a while, listen, and listen true
to the songs that will bring you anew.