Let the ghosts return in mythical vigilance.All we need is waiting.Weather is the first one to cave in.
Culture is a heavy word.My ghost adjusts accordingly.
The haunting ghost beguiled all the conflicts:love, hate, regret.He was hiding deep in the forest,when Norma sang Casta Diva.
He calmed down for a moment,when the headless Apollo’s torsoquieted every question.
And when Anthony Quinn’slast reply to Gregory Peckin “The Guns of Navarone,”“I am not the one easy to kill.”The ghost stood by Quinn.
The one following me is the ghostI love the most.He told me,I’m bound to witness an openingunder the streetlight.
When the clock strikes twelvein the dim misty night,the secret codeburied in another furtive cipherwill surface.My ghost can read it.And I’m sure,he and his ghost eyesare around the corner, waiting.