Phoenician Unwise, wondering children play for their lives. They build and spoil, raise and raze, sandgrain castles to edge the shore an advancing standstill... We dream and stare drowsy, late historians, wise, after our years.
All I remember's a mask, its grimace or smile like an old man's wrinkled face ironic, set in the crazed rictus of a grin at something hidden... Their alphabet is ours. Collateral. (Think a smokescreen.) Are we blind, by half?
Collection
[
|
...
]