Let me whisper this secret in your ear:
silently us pretend to be done with you
as us pretended silently never to have started
to drop both the explosions themselves
and the allure of their toy-like incubators.
Us sit at home now, pretending us never snuck out,
leaving our plastic toys in droves to tick
the time in your country, our playground
to trip the trails of hide and seek
of temple walks, of daily work.
Not to kill
dead people are forgotten.
but to hatch limping reminders
a reminder that we are in control
of the impermanence
in your stride.
There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it can be destroyed by
ridicule, howsoever poor and witless. Observe the ass, for instance: his
character is about perfect, he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler
animals, yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead of feeling
complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.
-- Mark Twain, "Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar"
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