The nebulous cap on his head, in a rainy late eveningwhen it’s already dark and when the world is in the stages of life,walks down the stone stairs; a few dogs prowl, a piazza waits empty,the smell of bread where it wafts in the morning, now only a few reeled bottlesand a sense of destiny. It’s funny how the inevitable winds up into everything,like the moments attendant and watching; we call it fate, we call it will.The river is but a short mile away; there he can smoke quietly and watch oneselfin quiet reflection of the red glimmer of hope- whether live or stillborn, or pinklike a squealing baby, ready to dance tarantulas and fling the best cloud on earth;The moon’s not yet quite there, and the buildings are hideous,at most a woman on the corner, or a student lost in sartre and making the world’s riddles,and there will be a step to sit, a joy to remember; draw upon the painting,there will be a canvas taut from one end to another: a life lived and to come, so manyunlived instants, so many happinesses. Almost a grasshopper.
Photograph Courtesy: Sharbeen Sarash © All Rights Reserved