Here is what the sycamore breezed
Out through its leaves
Dispersed in the wind
“Lies, lies, lies
Omissions and commissions
Everywhere,
The cries the cries
Unheard and unheeded
The tricks the tricks
Betwixt
The past rolling
In the breadcrumbs of AI
Faust, the jinn and the ghost
Roaming arm and arm
Now you, you and you
decipher that sign!”
Cortez, Genghis, and the game show host
Shouting their reason, misreason and disreasons
To be imbibed and imbued at our microcellular level
Picked up by the core of fear
And on the four corners and seven seas
All that waiting for an ascension, for Godot,
Waiting for a landing, waiting for a truce
Waiting for Commendatore to show up
With its marble hands
As that immortalized satellite of stone
Buzzes indifferently around
Levitating tides
“Shine, shine shine
Won’t you shine, oh Selene
On us your hidden, dark side”
Perhaps there’ll be a Revelation, a reveling,
A ribald reckoning
Or simply a tad of a Flowery light
Unafraid to cut through the fog
To resurrect a long defunct ear
To tune us not in the key of mud
but in that of Flowers.
Pina Piccolo, Imola 12 may 2025, waiting for the Flower Moon