A silhouette
sits
at a classroom desk—
parroting textbook phrases,
drilled,
dull and dreamless,
by tired teachers
of what and when.
A silhouette
stands
in the marble museum—
posed in inspection
before a blank canvas—
dutifully
noting date and title —
eyes searching
guide's face
before daring
to respond.
A silhouette
sits
in the concert hall—
listening listlessly,
ears strained
to program-note passages—
waiting for the right moment
to applaud.
A silhouette
stands
at the station—
clutching
a ticket to travel,
around the globe,
at programmed pace
in tourist herd.
A silhouette
says
'I do— I will, '
places
a cold, gold ring
on hollow finger—
binding forever,
in sickness,
till death do part.
A silhouette
stands
at attention—
waiting the signal
to march, mindless—
left— right—
left—
right—
rifle ready,
aim, fire.
A silhouette
sleeps
in restless slumber—
drowsed
by the drug
of TV's drone—
dreaming
of multi-multi-millions—
alarm set,
ringing intruder,
herald of nine-to-five.
A silhouette
shuffles
from place to place—
in rigid
rigor-mortis pace,
eyes lowered,
world weary,
deaf
to the song of the wind and rain—
numb to pleasure,
primed for pain—
on
and
on
till death do part.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem