And smiles.
Why?–
Why not.
A. Leyeles (1889- 1966)
FABIUS LIND'S DAYS
Fabius Lind's days are running out in blood.
Red serpents of failures empty his veins.
In his head - muddy-white stains . Confusion.
He could have . . .
He could have . . .
Gray spiderwebs of melancholy –
On his mind, before his eyes,
And a strange taut bow
Is aiming at the tip of his nose .
Fabius Lind, sunk in contemplation,
In talking, in reading, tightens–
Out of sheer being lost-
The noose around his neck .
Why can't Fabius Lind hold on to
The coattails of these times
And stride in the rows of all the marchers?
Why can't he swing back to h is childhood playground
And bring his flutes to play
The song of calm?
Why is he so indifferent at funerals
And so nervous at a birth?
Why can't he grab the two whores–
death and life
And dance with them a holy-foolish dance?
Whom does he ask?
No one . Just himself.
If
he could brain-out an answer,
He would not have asked .
