The Prophets And The Rich

Trees grow,
but there are benches beneath their shade.

In the father of them all,
Jean Jacques Rousseau,
the two tendencies coincide.

On the one hand there are the kings with their prestige,
the emperors with their glory,
the geniuses with their aura,
the saints with their haloes,
the leaders with their supremacy,
the prostitutes,
the prophets and the rich.

I feel the weight of slumber but not of unconsciousness.

But the first rains of winter,
falling already in the now harsh autumn,
washed away these halftones without respect.

There are days when a tedium,
a bitterness,
an anxiety about life seems to rise to my head from the ground underneath me,
and I would say it’s intolerable if I didn’t in fact tolerate it.

These female figures are all like
fugitives from pictures that were never painted.

I’m only half asleep,
and as I think these things which I’ll write down later.

Let us play hide-and-seek with our consciousness of living.

They’re imperfect in a different way.

How to upset your husband.

—Rev. Walter Wyatt, Os Rapazes de Barrowby