He stands upon the brink and wags his finger.
Speaks. Gives a speech
and they sit politely at the foot of the marble steps.
He weaves, bobs, and waves his way
down a barren sidewalk.
Wagging and ranting.
The film is silent. His words are lost to the previous century.
I wonder if anyone was listening to him back then either.
A month later, he is leading a bull by the nose.
Silent as the grave, he walks with patience.
Walking out his nightmare like the horned animal by his side.
He sold books for the rest of his life.
