Desolation

A ball of dead desert grass, blown forth by the wind

The blades of grass still having comfort in each other

A lone cactus, standing in the middle of a dead desert

Still touched by the rains, once or twice every year

A refugee, victim of a shipwreck, washed up on a desert island

One has a Friday, one has the birds in the trees, in the air

The musician on the corner of the street,

The one with the little monkey collecting coins,

Playing a sad, melancholic melody to nobody but himself

Woven together from notes, one after another,

Sweet, intangible notes, drifting through the air,

Before fading away,

Yet they follow each other in rhythmic precision, and know

That when they die, they've contributed to the whole

A candle, never meant to live a long life, spreads its light

Lights the paths of those who seek their way

Those who would otherwise be lost, straying in the darkness

A one day fly, flies into the flame, embracing the deadly heat

Is accompanied by the brightest of inner lights

And by the sweet ignorance of stupidity and oblivion

A lonely young man sits in his pleasant, enjoyable room

Talking to himself, watching television, thinking

And I...?

I am truly alone.

MdG, 2 minutes before midnight, 9 December 1999.