Chaplin

The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.

The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wrySmall 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 **** to tunes not played for ours.