The Silver Trumpet Brayed

From this shabby port boats are being sent on their dread voyages across seas and oceans in search of treasures beyond our wildest dreams. Who will bring home the golden statue, the diamond ring, the parakeet? ("Why have you brought me childrens' toys?")

The alabastar vase is cracked now and the marble halls in which we would play unhindered are ruins, photographed a thousand times a day by those who cannot understand and cannot understand why they should not be there.


My home is the sea shore, the shifting sands where the women used to play and where I longed, upon the shifting sands, for stone which would not shift:

"I was born in water, and so, from my first stroke
Set out towards the shelter of the greenest shore."

So still from this dread port boats are sailing. Will they bring me treasures? Of course they will not: those days are gone.

Last train to San Fernando - if you miss this one, you'll never get another one. (Bidi bidi bum bum, to San Fernando)

posted by Weasel @ 10:57 PM