TIRED NOW AND
COLD OF BEING
The red light blinks beyond the corner, edging
forces flowing to a stop. Reflections merge on
a pavement where only the mourners who walk
ever know. There's nothing left in the human arm.
The reach it was once tried has been proved too far.
-
I am pretty sure that scientists are writing all this
down, and that as soon as the sun goes down and
the plows come out, the long-night crawl will begin.
No dissidents at all, everyone in favor of the sweep.
'That's how the crowds cheered along St. Petersburg's
street so long ago,' someone says. I wasn't sure at all
what he meant - he wasn't that elderly, yet could he
mean Florida instead of Russia?
-
The story of History it only what's written in books.
The losers are dead and they tell no tales. The red
light, I realize again, is blinking as on some Moscow
street itself, where the peering gaze of Authority
sizes everything up while the guidebooks laugh.
'This is a land without any second chances.' Ah!
Now I knew what he's driving at. But I am
tired now - and cold of being - as well.
No comments:
Post a Comment