By Pavel Chichikov
‘And anyway, what difference does it make
If I'm in here, or out there – life's a fake –
Existence is unbearable, the same
Whether I'm in paradise – or what's its name?'
‘What is your name?' asked Robin, ‘what's your beef?'
“I'm Adam,' and he turned his face awry:
‘It's cramped in here but I can keep an eye
On everything – there's no room for a thief.
‘No one can get at me here, I'm safe
On every side, and nothing can sneak past
Because my crystal fills up all the space –
It's unassailable and made to last.'
‘I'm all for your security,' I said,
‘But why the constant weeping that we heard,
It's loud enough to animate the dead – ‘
The prisoner said ‘Stop now, take back that word.
‘There's nothing wrong with me, and if I whine
How does that concern you anyhow?
It's just because the inner surface shines
A bit, and breaks up my reflection.'
Robin stared a long time at the man,
And stroked the little flower in his coat –
It seemed to lead him where he had to go –
‘Sure,' he said at last, ‘your name is Adam?'
‘Well nothing's sure, for sure.' he moved his gaze
Away from us as if to hide his face –
‘I'm from somewhere else, and if I go
My name remains, my reputation stays.'
‘What reputation?' Robin asked. I felt
Raw dread – the crystal broke, began to melt
And out of it the contour of a form
Wriggled out, a sort of twisting worm.
‘Run,' I howled, ‘ Robin move, get out,'
Then a great confusion and a shout
Of triumph, and a loud command –
I shouted back and swung my fist, and ran
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Twenty-Five will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
