Ballad of the Water Meter In the darkness under stair tread six, where no one looks, no person, no gès, there lives a turntable, wet with regret, that whispers: “You forget me again today, policy.” No sunbeam, no warm laugh, only drops in a plastic collar. He counts, he counts, faithfully for years, but receives no card, flower or mourning. His ticks are your daily song, but you do not hear him. What sorrow. Yet he keeps measuring, without complaining—until one day the pipes ask: “Where is he, our water lord?” But then he is silent. He no longer measures.