what they do not understand
amazes them and they keep on reading it again
like a hieroglyphic in the pyramids of Giza
it is their intellectual pretension that makes them grand
and to make this sophisticated
they seldom talk but keep their silence like a pocket
they convene in a agreed hour and they look at each other
as though they understand perfectly what they are doing and judging
and they put something hazy on the table like a piece of
frost, or a chunk of haze, or a grains of mist
and they nod with each other saying this is what we are looking for
and they put that piece in the pedestal of the hours
saying this is # 1, this is the I of the They, This is the quintessence of all
essences
when they arrive home no one asks them
why
not a member of the household is interested
for in truth and this is the only truth and nothing but the truth
in the face of the mirror
is the absurdity of judgment: just a feeling, and nothing logical.
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