Words Hang In The Guileful Time

If happiness can be a 'state', it can only be a state of excitement prodded by unfulfillment ... Bzygmunt Bauman, The Art of Life.




It's a frost sprayed day
In a dazzling, unforgiving
pee stained town
and guileful Time
plays a game
with cunning Fate
urban wingless birds
are wandering the grounds
Their eyes catching the game,
while winter
blow up falls last attempts.
The sky indigo-colored
fruit stalls offering cheer to the season
ruby red of a pomegranate
turned black when concentrated and bottled
sweet scents of pale yellow quinces
turned red while preserved
a sharp pocket knife cutting
the oddly sunny firm flesh of a persimmon
all tribute to the poetry of the season
to the beauty of the turn offered
To those privileged
to take the now and then
into eternity.
to ride unbridled horses
in the wilderness of the mind's eye
Fate and Time keeping on their games
crossing swords of words
sharply slaughtering
the caress of a breezy love
and the sad voice of a castrato,
Left Behind
in a century in Which
there is no stage for castrati voice
but a cold stony corner,
and no other choice
than trailing behind
indifferent passerbys
Hugo's ghost hovering over
The tiny cafe tables
where heavenly hot chocolates
are steaming,
and lovers are huddling and giggling.
For a split second
Time and Fate are humbled
thus, they lower swords
and a flight of words
immediately hang in the indigo sky
The castrato's voice is scissored
and thrown into naught
wingless urban birds
lift dying eyes
on the right contrasting colors
of pomegranates, quinces and persimmons
now altered into the domesticity
of jars and bottles
jam and preserves,
all shelfed artfully
and the instant
with its remanent of unfulfilled happiness
to grab and to take into eternity
is thrown into naught too.

Flora Yeghoumians