Hour of the Shepherds
The naked statue, out in the garden, always fought
against the clouds, the rain, the winds, not from spite
but in a courageous natural way.
At this exact moment
it took a small halo, made peace with time and the
garden and
it looked like a Magus, the fourth one; it could lift
a lamb on its shoulders, in such a way that it wouldn’t
make Uncle John angry.
Then, suddenly the sun
disappeared again. The statue rediscovered its lonely,
unadjusted nakedness. Six glasses suddenly fell off
the windows of the Tower all the way down to
immeasurable depth; No sound was heard nor did we
find out whether they broke or landed somewhere
softly and were reused. The rain started falling
again, covering almost indifferently that depth.
Uncle John, wearing his velvet slippers, sauntered
endlessly, always angry at the weather, the rain,
the mud and even more so when the sun shone as
if he was losing his arguments. The first woe, he’d
say, and the second and third one. And alas, what
can one understand?
His glasses
sat on his eyebrows like two pieces of ice on top of
two precipitous mountains drawn in microscale in
the first page of a thick book that we never read
to the end.
But then how can one reach the end? And what would
the end mean?
The potters would gather in the basement in a secret
convention
undisturbed rats passed over their feet;
their hands were thick like two five-footed bears;
