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Chapter 19
por
Yann Tiersen
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To live outside the pale Is to wither and die Beyond the pale there are only Dressed up cavaders They are wound up each day Like alarm clocks They perform like seal They die like box office receipts But in the seething honey comb There is a growth as of plants An animal warmth Almost suffocating A vitality which accrues From rubbing and glueing together A hope which is physical As well as spiritual A contamination which Is dangerous but salutary Small souls perhaps Burning like tapers But burning steadily And capable of throwing Portenous shadows on the walls Which hem them in All goes round and round Creaking, wobbling, lumbering Whipmering some-tunes But round and round and round Then, if you become very still Standind on a stoop for instance And carefully think no thoughts A myopic, bestial clarity besets your vision There is a wheel There are spokes And there is a hub And in the center of the hub There is Exactly nothing
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