cross-legged like Indians,
watching a blockbuster video on the wall,
can only see the imitation of the perfect idea
of Liberty,
the shadow of the Statue – an image;
hanging over their shoulder is the light,
but they cannot turn towards it.
Still those who travel to these shores from afar
may have a glimpse of it
in New York Harbor –
majestic, dazzling, lightening the world
(like a trick of gods – the Form,
yet hollow – a trojan horse,
tabernacle of so many perfect ideas,
most feared cortege of silhouettes
that at night sneak out and rape
lady Liberty in the dark.)
I believe, there are also those with a passion
for the Δ, those who dedicate the night
to contemplating the brightest thing of all,
the Supreme Idea of Goodness.
(Apparently, they are to be found
mostly in catacombs.)
©Elena Malec, California 1997
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