MARIGOLD WOMAN: Begin with an ending and see what happens
There is none like unto my lover! I told the sky. None like unto him!
The sky did not answer.
*
There is a house; there has always been a house. There is the red land; there has always been the red land. There is the swamp, and the treacherous black land, and the cities and trains and the north and the witch’s kingdom.
There is no end to the witches.
Still within sight of the mountains of God there lives a small animal with bright eyes and a long tail and tiny claws. She carries with her the skull of a large animal, dragging it awkwardly in her wake. Where is she going? Nobody knows. Socrates asked himself the same question, as he went on his way.
Will she go the way of Socrates? But I am Plato as well as Socrates, and I cry for her to stay, and I hope that by erecting towers of words I can do for her what Plato could not for his beloved teacher. We will sit together, that nearsighted water-bear and I, and weep, for once united. The Greeks bring death in their footsteps, but when Plato sobs lugubrious he is truthful.
Come, friend Plato, tell me the secret, help me write for my small wandering animal more wisely than you wrote for your Socrates.
The sky did not answer.
*
There is a house; there has always been a house. There is the red land; there has always been the red land. There is the swamp, and the treacherous black land, and the cities and trains and the north and the witch’s kingdom.
There is no end to the witches.
Still within sight of the mountains of God there lives a small animal with bright eyes and a long tail and tiny claws. She carries with her the skull of a large animal, dragging it awkwardly in her wake. Where is she going? Nobody knows. Socrates asked himself the same question, as he went on his way.
Will she go the way of Socrates? But I am Plato as well as Socrates, and I cry for her to stay, and I hope that by erecting towers of words I can do for her what Plato could not for his beloved teacher. We will sit together, that nearsighted water-bear and I, and weep, for once united. The Greeks bring death in their footsteps, but when Plato sobs lugubrious he is truthful.
Come, friend Plato, tell me the secret, help me write for my small wandering animal more wisely than you wrote for your Socrates.