Down in the dust of the lower streets, wide hats cover every face; upper floors stand blind and hollow, bricked-up windows out of place. Eyes to the stones, little one, hands by your sides, stay still; when the copper bell is ringing, not even dust may spill. Every door is shut by evening, each latch tested by hand; no one talks about the tower, but its shadow stains the land. Eyes to the stones, little one, chin down, body still; when the copper bell is ringing, hold your breath against your will. They say it keeps the roofs from breaking, keeps the town from open air; not that high above the silence, something counts who looked up there. Eyes to the stones, little one, mouth shut, body still; when the copper bell falls silent, do not look beyond the sill.
