Mesoarchaean

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