Though I stand in submerged silver, I don’t suffocate.
My fashioned flesh follows the years,
clothed in the same yarn and painted with the same face.
My setting remains where it’s always been, my background.
My knob is turned somewhere I do not quite know,
like the turning of clear air into snow.
I sing a universal tune
for His sovereign pleasure,
for his manly delight over me,
for her joy in twisting me,
for their purpose in ruling the globe.
But whether by chance or destiny,
my worldview was shattered one day
by a clumsy hand of power.
Though I can still breathe a sweet melody
and dance the old way in the old land,
they find me useless now.
For I’m no longer worthy in cracked design.
Yet I do not mind.
Though I’ll be thrown away, still molded in my limits,
I can see with free eyes unwashed with glittering lies.