As silver rain is falling softly on the park trees, I walk on the track , its etched geometrical shapes moving endlessly like Nabokov’s trees which are going on a pilgrimage to somewhere all the time.
A woman’s hand goes up to the tree to pluck its red flowers and comes down to drop them in a bag in repetitive motions as if she was acting a parody of life-and-death .
Caligula is in need of the moon.
Impossible? Which is why he wants it.
Pointless ?That is why he wants it.
The moon which is red and dead.
Caligula is acting out his mime.
The death and destruction of Rome
Caligula is plucking blood-red
flowers of absolute power
In order to secure his after-life.
Their deaths are his salvation,
A live proof of the possibility
of his achieving the moon.
The boy in Nabokov’s story has drawn gods with saucer eyes .
My own Gods have unblinking eyes
which see everything,everywhere
Because they do not have lids
they see all the time ,all the space.
The Morning is Just a Dream 