Chaplin

The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky. The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night. The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again; But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain. Diminuendo of footsteps even is done: Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun. Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees. God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair; And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair, While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers And our feet jerk to tunes not played for ours.