The Lid

Whatever place he goes, on land or sea, under a sky on fire, or a polar sun, servant of Jesus, follower of Cytherea, shadowy beggar, or Croesus the glittering one, city-dweller or rustic, traveller or sedentary, whether his tiny brain works fast or slow, everywhere man knows the terror of mystery, and with a trembling eye looks high or low. Above, the Sky! That burial vault that stifles, a ceiling lit for a comic opera, blind walls, where each actor treads a blood-drenched stage: Freethinkers’ fear, the hermit sets his hope on: the Sky! The black lid of the giant cauldron, under which we vast, invisible Beings rage.