Tuesday, March 05, 1996

March 5

Yesterday is old, lost by accident upon a wheel of smoke.

Half of the world’s population, filled with blind discipline and absolute trust, lies down to sleep in the factory yards.

Exhausted ballet.

Bells are sounded, that river mingles with their weeping.

The crowd still waits in the darkened temple. Pale in their black dresses. Candles no larger than themselves. Phantoms enter.

Hearts too heavy, in the end.

Why could one not just live and breathe and walk through the snow?