The old Grecian tunics would rain all over the place.
Anointed and bedazzled with the aroma of an exotic flower
The entire town would come, with their
Coal-miners and fisher-men.
It was told long ago, about today, when
Garbled thoughts would be made
Into words,
Words that would
Enable a thousand league deep pathos
In all of their hearts.
‘But this is just a show.
Three pence a ticket.’
He should not go for that.
But alas, the wicked ways of the heart, would pull him in
Hiding him in the veil of the crepuscular crowd,
And he would wait patiently for the aria to burst, when
She would lift the veil, and in
Her secret pout, he wouldn’t miss the wave of fervor.
Her odor would belittle the foreign stylizations
And the remnant fishy smell would vanish
Like an ominous comet.
He would marvel, with the townspeople, forgetful of
The miseries, as beauty blinds the best.
The best of fishermen.
Long ago, in the drunkenness of youth
He had found a good teacher,
An artist of thoughts,
A woman, a mother, a daughter,
A goddess, like those sculptures in Indian temples.
Silently he would ramble through the words, memorized long ago,
In dreams and in theaters, in fishing boats drunk on the sea.
He would hum it now
No she won’t hear
A little louder
She would scorn?
Perhaps then, the pinnacle of in-between, when
The wave is in midair waiting to crash,
Oh the uncertainty of art.
“I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.”
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