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.