Can the curtain fall gold? The Midas touch of morning light. Let it make you happy. Watch the play unfold. Bread sellers, shoe sellers, three on a white trike laden with herbs, a tide of scooters urging the onion seller on, while the garlic seller turns catherine wheels down the street in an attempt to escape his own smell.
The musicians are out and the jugglers too. Their clothes are torn and patched but their smiles are wide and their hearts are warm. How you bring out the light in us.
Tumblers come to defy gravity. I hold their hat while they show how its done, pass it round for spare coins. No! Give someone else the key I don’t want the responsibility. Look how they tumble in Prussian blue and gold and shake off the rust of the day, clearing a path of filtered light.
Tumblers come to defy gravity. I hold their hat while they show how its done, pass it round for spare coins. No! Give someone else the key I don’t want the responsibility. Look how they tumble in Prussian blue and gold and shake off the rust of the day, clearing a path of filtered light.
Afternoon comes and shadows lengthen. A conference of elephants break off their debate. They stand and sway to an unseen band, their trunks like pendulums. They are watching a knot of women hold up sheets, fold folding folded: an ivory origami. It is an intricate dance of mothers and daughters, corner to corner, centre and back. Who has the right, the chicken or the egg? Elephants nod respectfully at the interplay of generations.
And the glint of light glosses sharp edges smooth as the curtain of day falls. White turns to gold, to Prussian blue, then seeps into the cracks of the earth to wait for resurrection.
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