A foretelling of the future--
What shall be beheld?
In the summer's time,
In the wildly-expansive universe.
Will the planets play
The music of the spheres?
When comes the time
When old men weep for the women
They have wronged,
And old women rejoice, dead from sorrow,
Raised up from lives that have become tombs.
One pointed finger, a woman's--
Angled, long, with sharpened nail.
Accuser, and accusing, the hand
Of the gypsy shakes.
Is it in fear or in anger?
Point your finger to the stars--
Skyward; they tumble, five-pronged badges
Of dying light, while behind the clouds
Explodes the light of other universes.
Stand out amidst the stars in summer's time,
Alone, the night is a million voices
And as many eyes--the spirits
Of the future world, speaking and pointing.
Oddly beautiful, the women--
Waist-length hair, shimmering
In the summer's heat.
Mirages, as they bend down to retrieve
Stars stolen from other universes
And the bodies of the weeping men
Who died in the silence of the night sun.
Point your fingers to the stars, women
Of the shimmering hair; the spirits'
Whispering grows louder, like a buzzing
In the air, the scent of roses then,
And roses fall where stars once lay.
Wait for the woman of many lights
Who crushes serpents' heads
And barefoot stands upon a waning moon.
PM De Angelis
from Parables and Voices