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There are moments in life |
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When man with his louse-ridden hair |
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Casts wild staring looks |
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At the green membranes of space: for he believes, he hears, somewhere ahead |
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The wry hoots of a phantom |
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He staggers and bows his head: what he has heard is the voice of his own conscience |
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He is determined and alert |
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And with the speed of a madman he rushes out |
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Takes the first direction his wold state suggests |
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And bounds over the rough plains of the wield |
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But the yellow phantom never loses sight of him |
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Chasing him with equal speed |
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Sometimes on stormy nights |
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When legions of winged octopi |
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Which look like ravens at a distance |
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Hover above the clouds... moving ponderously towards the cities of men, there, in the dark, their mission is to warn them.... |
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On such nights the dark eyed grit, sees two beings passing by |
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One after another |
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and wiping a furtive tear of compassion: which flows out |
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From its frozen eye |
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It shouts out "yes, certainly he deserves it, it is only justice being done!" Having said that, he reassumes his grim attitude |
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And continues to watch |
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And continues... to watch, trembling nervously, the manhunt |
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The phantom makes a clicking sound |
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with its tongue as if to tell itself it's giving up the chase |
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His is the voice of the condemned |
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And when its dreadful shrieking penetrates the human heart |
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Man would prefer to have death as his mom |
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Than to have remorse as his son |
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I have seen him making for the sea |
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Climbing a jagged promontory |
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Lashed by the eyebrow of the surge |
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And flinging himself down, into the waves |
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The miracle is this: the corpse reappeared the next day |
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On the surface of the raging sea... Which had brought this flotsam of pale flesh back to the shore |
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The man freed himself from his body's imprint in the sand |
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He wrung the water from his drenched hair |
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The man freed himself |
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From his body's imprint in the sand... Wrung the water from his drenched hair |
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And silently returned to the way of life |
