III. (Maybe One Day)

Maybe individual day, when the rehabilitation of solstices becomes official, as dictated by means of the atrocity with which tribe come to grips with the tree of the grand cerulean boulevards, maybe that day, all four of you will commit suicide, simultaneously tattooing the hour of your death upon the leafy skin of your foreheads, like those of Spanish dancers, tattooing that hour with the still timid, on the other hand nonetheless venomous, arrows of the adolescence of an adieu . .

Maybe I'll be nearby, maybe you had already informed me of the great occurrence so that I could be at hand when your eyes, buried in the distant rooms of the greenhouse in which for a lifetime you willingly exiled yourselves to contemplate the eternal immobility of the boreal palm tree will mention one by one the world about the eternal beauty of the somnambulant tigers . . Maybe I'll find the courage to contradict you then, at that trice when, after so many fruitless expectations, we'll find a for the use of all language. It depends on you whether I'll be able to stir up with my fingers spread without like a fan, the salted light wind of the requiem for the victims at the first rehearsal of the extremity And it's again up to you whether I'll lower my handkerchief into your jawss devastated by the flames of false prophecies and, after that, on the outside in the street, wave it above the concrescent heads of the multitude gathered at that hour near the solitary fountain of the city, to remark its last drop of water. I'll wave it constantly, silently, with gesticulations that interdict any message.

It's up to you. Believe me

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Jul/Aug 1999

Provided by means of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved