And Death Is No More
David Feuer At the windowsill I stand sleepless and glum; before me, an empty street, a world, wide and impish, tucked in now by a snuggly blanket of crisp flakes sent from above. And, though I know I shouldn’t, I bid these four walls adieu. Outside await the Russian ballerinas, oh, those twirlers and whirlers, those Sashas and Natashas. The second act is about to begin: Tchaikovsky rings out, and the danseuses glide elegantly and join their country-women on the ground. And I gaze up at the moon, the most faithful companion of mine, and she sends me her greetings and her rays twinkle blue. I sense the dust of a million galaxies swirl, and I hear the winds howl and, though I know I shouldn’t, I allow myself a tear or two. And a solitary lamp burns on at the end of the street: a signal, ever dimmer. The flames flare, the People’s Army stands at attention, Lucifer has arisen, and the world will glow. And, though I know I shouldn’t, I sit back and take a bite of my sandwich. And a car whooshes by. The laughs of yet happy men and yet happy women resonate. The glasses clink, the drinks flow, the kisses fly, and life, it would seem, is but a blink of the eye. Church bells toll, the angels pay Earth a visit, the bears awake from hibernation, and the smell of booze drifts slowly in the night, and death is no more. |