The Man Who Is Coming

***(The man who is coming) A dissonant clamor of colorful voices equal pebbles, days equal like some rust crumble out of the eyes. It is late to change myself and I am the same again – with the essence of an oak and a rose. Dissolved in the heavens and with immovable shape of a heart. A movement of light, before the Angel comes by your house. On the island a hand with a cresset lit weighs. /o, Nietzsche – a symbol of free will, that your road has cut off/, and how much does the Hawaii weigh and the frames of the madwoman a hand – an endless feast of deep tints (why hasn’t Van Gogh been born yet?) On that island I’d like the feast to be... The man who is coming is whistling lightly ...