Tales of Eden

  This is how February ends. Nature's softest blossoms and a long stretch of thin sighs sticking onto the last splinters of a hope that used to be. A death and another. Staring into empty hands. A hospital bed. A woman in labour for a child whose casket and clothes await. February is for swift hands that brush off hasty tears.  I linger on the cusps of cyclopian dreams and sink my head beneath double sided mirrors and when I gasp, I do not know whose name my tong'ue speaks. This is how February ends. In Rhetorics. What would you have done in the face of the flames? Would you cradle the warmth in the undertones of your self destructive thoughts? Would you give it room for certainty, say, there is a ghost town of radicals and the best of them are scholars? Say, they make their homes under the ashes of Alexandria and they read the books that were grabbed by flames before arms could reach them? The best of them lawyers. They think Atlantis was better off uninhibited. They speak of