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Mesoarchaean
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Ocean
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1
There are moments in life
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When man with his louse-ridden hair
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Casts wild staring looks
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At the green membranes of space: for he believes, he hears, somewhere ahead
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The wry hoots of a phantom
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He staggers and bows his head: what he has heard is the voice of his own conscience
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He is determined and alert
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And with the speed of a madman he rushes out
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Takes the first direction his wold state suggests
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And bounds over the rough plains of the wield
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But the yellow phantom never loses sight of him
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Chasing him with equal speed
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Sometimes on stormy nights
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When legions of winged octopi
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Which look like ravens at a distance
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Hover above the clouds... Moving ponderously towards the cities of men, there, in the dark, their mission is to warn them...
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On such nights the dark eyed grit, sees two beings passing by
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One after another
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And wiping a furtive tear of compassion: which flows out
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From it's frozen eye
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It shouts out "yes, certainly he deserves it, it is only justice being done!" Having said that, he reassumes his grim attitude
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And continues to watch
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And continues... To watch, trembling nervously, the manhunt
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The phantom makes a clicking sound
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With it's tongue as if to tell itself it's giving up the chase
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His is the voice of the condemned
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And when it's dreadful shrieking penetrates the human heart
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Man would prefer to have death as his mom
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Than to have remorse as his son
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I have seen him making for the sea
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Climbing a jagged promontory
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Lashed by the eyebrow of the surge
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And flinging himself down, into the waves
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The miracle is this: the corpse reappeared the next day
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On the surface of the raging sea... Which had brought this flotsam of pale flesh back to the shore
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The man freed himself from his body's imprint in the sand
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He wrung the water from his drenched hair
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The man freed himself
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From his body's imprint in the sand... Wrung the water from his drenched hair
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And silently returned to the way of life
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