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Mesoarchaean [Legions of Winged Octopoi]
The Ocean
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There are moments in life
When man with his louse-ridden hair
Casts wild staring looks
At the green membranes of space
For he believes, he hears, somewhere ahead
The wry hoots of a phantom
He staggers, bows his head
What he has heard is the voice of his own conscience
He is determined and alert
And with the speed of a madman rushes out
Takes the first direction his wild state suggests
And bounds over rough plains of the wield
But the yellow phantom never loses sight of him
Chasing him with equal speed
Sometimes on stormy nights
When legions of winged octopi
Which look like ravens at a distance
Hover above the clouds
Moving ponderously towards the cities of men
There, in the dark, their mission is to warn them
On such nights, the dark eyed grit sees two beings passing by one after another
And wiping a furtive tear of compassion
Which flows out from its frozen eye
It shouts out, "Yes, certainly he deserves it!"
"It is only justice being done, despite it being injustice"
Having said that, he reassumes his grim attitude
And continues to watch
And continues to watch, trembling nervouslyโthe manhunt
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The phantom makes a clicking sound
With its tongue as if to tell itself it's giving up the chase
His is the voice of the condemned
And when its dreadful shrieking penetrates the human heart
Man would prefer to have death as his mom
Than to have remorse as his son
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I have seen him making for the sea
Climbing a jagged promontory
Lashed by the eyebrow of the surge
And flinging himself down into the waves
The miracle is this: the corpse reappeared the next day
On the surface of the raging sea
Which had brought this flotsam of pale flesh back to the shore
The man freed himself from his body's imprint in the sand
He wrung the water from his drenched hair!
The man freed himself from his body's imprint in the sand
Wrung the water from his drenched hair
And silently returned to the way of life
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