Citizen Kane

Citizen Kane

In a cold warehouse of glass and marble,

The silent rhythm of a banker’s tremble,

A silver sphere with the name a‑washed,

Stands mute, like a hushed long‑lasting hush.

The village of her life is whispered bright,

A ma­chine of dreams, late at night, in flight,

Metallic breaths from a Cairo street,

Spin the love‑scarred heart, a twilight repeat.

The press, those sharp‑tongued, paper‑cutting men,

Craft a story, pin‑pointing, world‑wide then,

They write our present in printed script,

Then melt her name into inked‑diamond drift.

The chorus hums in polished tongue:

The booming roar of the old cinema rung,

When the bravest one found up the great trust,

…he knew the great life was wrapped in dust.

A silent film‑cutter of fate’s lecture,

The snare seat reminds us of soft venturous,

Kent and Oh, their hearts are worn with the song,

Lasten’s hand will slide the day to long.

Internally, within the maze,

The guard‑woman whispers “Flingin’, hey, blah.”

"Why aren't we one yet?" some private soliloque,

So-skills keep the closure of “kane; you may be bound to a 1-and-2."

And does the shining bubble of “Rosebud”

So echo in black‑and‑white sky of feeling?

There is a sense of timing that is the bond,

A whole story for your child to keep in a word.

Going light into the graveyard of the world,

An independent tale. The brave tapes will tell.

And the last chapters bring the request for emancipation.

The 1970's film uses as it goes;

The theatrical heritage going across the border.