THE PICTURE
Hounded by the maelstrom of time still snapping
harsh at my heels, I can only wince and try to
stay ahead. Motorcars and constables, men
with blue eyes and their slithery umbrellas, they
tend to keep me tense. Yet, no - that is not the
real reason for this moment. The wind rakes the
East River harbor with something else instead:
the seagull cries of ten thousand losses, the young
men never back from the sea, and the lines of
immigrant masses, their cries and laments.
-
I take but a moment - if that, it would seem -
from the ever-long face eternity wears. Stretched
without limit, endless and roaring, its own line of
time only has doors that open, while mine, about
to snap back, has a harsh spring that closes. 'My
friend, my friend,' I hear someone say (a dark
man in a shadowy coat) 'my friend fear this not!
All pictures have frames, and all framings have
have edges. Arrive where you're going,
and you'll know you are there.'
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