A Digression On Giants

The noontime sun reaches high into the sky,
Alighting the paths of the giants below,
Wondering to herself at all the moments
The giants will never pay mind to.
A crash and a boom as they lumber around,
Refusing their tribute to old Figaro,
And now they all scorn the retreat of the morn;
The sun ducks its face 'neath the window,
And I, not so tall, invisible to all,
Take comfort in welcoming darkness.

A boom and a crash: how rash, oh how rash
Are those tall ghosts of greatness's widow!
And never they guessed at the goal of their quest;
So blindly they live, out my window!

The shadows are grateful--they thank me for kindness,
Surrendering now to their old faithful blindness,
Collapsing at once to the cold wooden floor.

A rapping I hear at some quite distant door,
Some awkward slight tapping unfit for Lenore.
With a creak it is opened--the shadows, they stutter--
Close followed by utterances strange: nevermore,
And a flit closely follows, mistook for a flutter,
And the shadows have struck unannounced at my core.
I glare at them coldly, so wondrous, worldly,
And wonder at what sort of thing's got them sore.
The Raven, he mutters again, nevermore,
And flies, oh he flies!
And with a creak shuts the door.

My mind turns its fancy to the giants once more,
So clumsy and aimless, unburdened by purpose,
Permitted to be what they wanted to be
(Which for these once-great creatures is nothing at all),
And still I must marvel at their heights, oh so tall!
I wonder what's got all their heads in the clouds
When not one fool among them would ever dare dream,
And the answer, I think, is as plainly should seem,
Which is just that they've lost sight of who they all are.
The darkness and distance obscure their eyes' gleam,
And I wonder if they even remember they're human.

And I'm curious how she, at her home 'cross the sea,
Must be coping with all of the kin of these creatures.
Those giants are more than the reanimations
Of folk who have died before tasting their ages:
Those beasts are the ones who developed the flame
That set light to the poems, the millions of pages
That once contained stories and paintings and epics
(And that one explains he is but an accountant,
That these sorts of fancies have no place or purpose
In the world they've all toiled so long to establish),
And she, just like me, cannot bear it at all.
And still she must marvel at their heights, oh so tall!
She wonders what's got them all hugging the ground,
Corrupting and choking her own world, a dreamscape,
And she is afraid of the sinister swound,
From which, paranoia, she might never escape.

(I say paranoia because she's not one at all--
For she, just like me, is no giant at all.)

But still my eye suffers the release of a tear
For the sake of the nightmarish sense of the fear,
For I know what it feels like, a dreamer me also.
The moon now outside peeks its face through my window,
And the giants, afraid of the comforting light,
O'ertaken by frenzy, speed out of my sight
Toward landscapes unburdened by moon's inspiration.
A crash and a boom marks their happy elations
As each far away tumbles down to the ground,
Reminiscent of that unmistakable sound
Which the Jabberwock made as he fell with a thud
(Monotonous sound of fantastical blood),
And again my eye suffers the release of a tear.

The moon now is left with so little to do,
Picks up his belongings, heads westward to rue
The deplorable state of the world over there,
To scare off the giants with the threat of his stare,
And to see if he can manage protecting that world.
Thus cued is the sun--she uplifts with a care,
Giving out a long bellow, reviving the masses,
Condemning the world out my window to waking.

Another day solemnly through the sky passes,
The giants intent on so little it making.

22 August 2007