The clocks on the wall were
marching backwards,
A constant, unrelenting sound
a deep growl, the cry of a
wounded beast as it struggles
to understand why its limbs
refuse to obey its commands.
Desperate for air I burst out
Of the house.
In the unnerving heat, with the Earth
breathing beneath me I encounter
a group of chanters, the type
one finds in the open markets
of Morocco, yelling,
advertising their product.
Behind them, crusaders,
a sorry horde, rugged clothes,
marching beside them.
-To where? I yell
-You have not heard?
The apocalypse has arrived,
off to fight evil, the troops
of Satan.
-Where are they? I reply
-Right there, marching straight at us.
-No, I replied, only an illusion, an image of your
distorted mind, what you see, it is you.
-It is all just the same, if our death is their death,
so be it.
I shrug my shoulders and return to the house.
I have no more desire to follow
the eternal reenactment of a bad play,
and listen to the twaddle of the chorus of fools.
I set my clocks forward until tomorrow.
In the morning, time will have completed its
backwards march
and I will be greeted again by chanters and crusaders,
playing, ad infinitum, their part in the comedy.
Fivos R Drymiotis © 2006