Maturity
Doubtfully, he says, vague, dark; I can’t make anything
out of them. The grass stirs. Old women shake off big,
black bed-sheets out of the windows. The milkman
urinates on the sidewalk. The limping man sharpens
his knife on the stone. Suddenly they lower the flags
from the embrasures. Big drums roll down the hillside.
The guards run away. “He’s crazy, they yell, crazy, crazy,
don’t believe him”. He runs, they chase him. “He was
drumming the cauldrons during the night”. The spears
gleam. Women raise their dresses, close their eyes. “Don’t
believe him”. And you don’t know whether they laugh or cry.

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