Chapter IIIIt was too long that you would not tell meand so I stopped waiting,I stopped wantingand then what was left?what would have beenthe answer (all that was left to be unsaid)fades into the quiet as we sit, not a single wordfilling the air--and I'll still say it was the windthat forced me to turn away.
Tribute to Eos...And I think I find paradiseso early in the morningwhen grasses stretch over the hillsideand blossoms yawn, the cock's crow pausinglong enough to absorb the dewI feel the chill behind me, but Eos,Titan Goddess, Mother of the Winds,She kisses both cheeks, a greetingthat leaves my fingertips smelling of Oceanus;homeA car slowly tugs at the silence,the mountainside--and there goes that symphonyof roosters again, squaking out a tribute to the day:She has come, She has come! She has lit the world!I exhaleAnd yes, I think even Kronoswould have smiled upon this creation.
WooshI would fly,but I have no wingsof my ownand if I sewed some onthey would say they'reonly silly dreams of Mary Poppins and Peter Panbut they don't understand on the groundthat there will always be dreamsI could flybecause I want to touch the moonat nightand sit on its gentle curvelooking down at the sleeping worldbeneath me,but the top of the worldisn't as high as it getsSo I flew onceto show my brother with innocent eyesthat magic still exists, and fell flatbetween the chemical f
Growing upChildhood memories are always a drag--when you're aloneyou remember things like father's farm andand mother's tiny apartmentwith all those useless wealthy ethicsthat got none of you anywhere because there really was no money to spare,and if you grow up successful or somethingthey always say it was your parents' doingand never your own sweat as you climbed the ladder:how hard you practiced scribbling on stacks of paperwith your fat worn-down crayonsor how much you studied those science bookswith your scratched square glasses,and somehow when you become a great painter or chemistby your mother's hand or father's genesit never really mattered if youpaid a hundred dollars per hourjust to sit and talk with someone who pretended to careand even though you rememberthe stiff chairs and foreign over-dressed officeyour admirers will never understandthat your mother popped pills and your father drankand you created all your own dreamsAnd although you can buy candy it isn't
Of ClayIn the underbrush the people lay,Mouths hanging dry from the day.In unison the hands are reachingAnd filled with the ardent preaching:Food will come if we pray.So we dance the dust balletAnd sing the heavens cumulus gray.Our wide eyes wait in the underbrush.Denied by cracked earth and blue sky,We become the wolf's tired prey.Dirty bodies at last succumbing,Face the beast empty-handed. We are dying,We savages of clay, in the underbrush.