She makes a tower of her hair,
Pinning it quickly and deftly with a simple pin.
Beauty is where the air is thin.
You should have seen how this caught my eye;
That’s when I fell in love with her. When she made her hair fly
So that her handsome neck was seen—
Her neck could be in a magazine.
A lovely magazine photo, however,
Cannot show the charm of a woman’s movement—never!
Many are willing for hours to sit
In a dark cinema. Not me. The movie isn’t worth it if she’s not in it.
She wraps and pins her hair,
And slowly, slowly I walk up that brown stair.
For hours I look down on the world below.
The world runs and falls, but I won’t go.
From her hair, I gaze deeply at the world below,
Where things move and things age,
And everything they record and stage
Ends up old, or sad, or in a tiny rage.
But not her! Not her hair!
You can see me living there.