Act I

Act I.

Fleece, golden and shimmering,
Clings to the briars’ thorns.
The mystical strands stir in a barely perceptible breeze.

The trail of rarified sheep or of some maniac with tweezers?

Fortnights march in formation
They stomp the daisies
They leave bullet-shaped depressions in the mud
They pirouette

They never examine themselves.

The monarch prostrates himself
At the feet of a poppy field.

“If We look up, We shall surely turn to stone!"

There is no mechanic lodged
At the bottom of the well
To engineer the quality of its echoes and sighs.

~

He dances, intoxicated with the delirium
That invisibly circulates, like oxygen, with each breath.
A maniac with tweezers, he delicately positions the fleece
Among the briars, laughing, skipping with delight,
Head tossed back to face an indifferent, sun-whitened sky.

“I want---to be---a sheep!”