In Modo Celeste

Sky.  Its faithful birds are interspersed with invisible streams, leaving their feathers for the pillows of lucky heavenly creatures.  Its clods fall and, gaining strength, crash into the bitter-ripe pulp of time, causing splashes; curl up into spotted circles in the solar demesne. The sky is more powerful than the birds.  Imagine a world where there are birds but skyless.  Imagine a world where there is sky but birdless. There are always people enamoured with the sky. These people renounce straightforward winds that do not pour blue: from the crumbly and spacious earth; from the rust of the length.  At the masquerade, they guessed timelessness in its perpetuity behind a red mask.  These soi-disant caelestinians desire to be like faithful birds, and they roam like silvery giraffes: their heads held high and presenting no credentials to the patient milieu.

One of them sees the other.  The second one sees the third one. The third one doesn't see the sixth one.  The fifth conspires with the fourth.  Was there the zeroth?  The fourth forgot to look at the seventh. The seventh thought so, but he does not share this with the second.  Someone quietly drips: 'Oh, help me figure it all out!' After all, the second will blurt everything out to the fifth, and try to conspire (guilelessly) with the fourth.  No, there was no zeroth.  So says the third.  And someone still prefer to believe.  But definitely not the second.  And not the first.  Now the sixth has stopped seeing the third.  Is there anyone who see them all?

by Ed. Labintzeff