In the dark corner of the hall,

perhaps forgotten by her mistress,

silent and dusty,

laid the harp.

So many notes slept in her strings,

as the songbird sleeps in the branches,

waiting for the snowy hand

that knows how to awake them!

Alas! – I thought – how often does genius

likewise sleep in the deepest of the heart,

and a voice, like Lazarus, awaits

to be told “Rise and walk!

Poem by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

and Clarissa, my Amigo Secreto.

NOTE: The game ended yesterday.

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