Wednesday, 9 October 2013

Portrait 10

            human   water    falls

             a thinnish mouth

             hands in pockets
                for solitary kickabout

    Old Whiteheaded Villan

                 Autumn chittering

    blackened twig garland

                out the back

             vowel music

                Old Age's a bastard
                                      but still
              on scuffed up ball


  1. human water falls
    that says it all, doesn't it...
    brilliant as usual.

  2. Thank you, Marie and Vassilis, very much.

    May the Whiteheaded Saints preserve us from the tyranny of generalities, Tom.


  3. "You treacherous, white-headed old villain," I exclaimed angrily, "I am half inclined to kill you for so savage a trick. Odds! but my arm feels as if it were broken."

    The fellow grinned at me, showing his yellow fangs.

    "I care not if you kill," he answered, with true Indian stoicism. "I am old, and have served the Sun long. Kill, but I will not be unavenged of my people; for, whether I live or die, it matters not--there is no escape for you."

    He spoke with such confidence as to stun me.

    "No escape? Why?"

    His lips curled with undisguised contempt.

    "So my words sting. Well, they are true, nor am I unwilling to tell you. You are trapped here. There is no path you can travel, either by night or day, unseen of our people. You have already climbed along the only passage leading here, and you dare not go back. This way you have reached the end. Behind is the village; here the altar of sacrifice--choose either, and you die like the Français dogs you are."

    "Who is here to touch us?" I asked derisively. "There is food in plenty; we can wait our chance."

    "Ay, you have grace of this day in which to make ready," his wrinkled face lighting maliciously. "When yonder moon becomes round it will be the night of sacrifice. Know you what will happen then?" he licked his thin lips greedily. "I may not be here to see, but it will be the same. Up that path of rocks will swarm all of my race, and what then can save you from the altar? How they will welcome the victims waiting their pleasure--white-faced Français."

    Randall Parrish: Père André LaFossier, in Prisoners of Chance, 1908