Peder
Well-Known Member
The Race of Death
I ran the Race of Death, through streets and avenues
Ten miles long in concrete canyons one mile deep,
Past vendors of souvlaki, franks and shish-kebab, with
Lights of red and green marking laps, setting the pace,
An engineer among physicians, lawyers, salesmen,
Vendors, pitch men, plumbers, executives, clerks
And secretaries, credentials not required, come as you are,
Everyone welcome, start when you can -- a strange sort of race.
The crowds came, continually, pressing in, expecting
To line the route, enjoy an afternoon, watch the spectacle,
But instead they became the spectacle themselves,
“In here,” “Start running,” “Keep on going,” “Move it. Now!”
The Man in Grey moved easily through the runners,
Gliding forward, keeping step or falling back,
Turning those he had in mind toward the Tunnel
The only way out, darkened, deep, down down-down.
Far up along the canyon’s edges where flags and pennons
Slapped the wind, a Man in White stood looking thoughtfully
Into the maelstrom. What could he possibly see or hear
That made a difference? A runner offering a helping hand?
Perhaps an offer to carry someone’s burden?
A thank you for a new born infant? A request
For strength against all evil? Or simply to continue the race?
Indications from people whose hearts he had touched.
The crafty Grey One slipped ahead, to lap the field
Come up behind. But no matter, I could see
Runners ahead stumbling, slowing down,
Likely candidates, struggling, falling behind.
I felt no touch, nor heard a word. The sky spun,
The canyon lurched, and ankles and feet ran past my eyes,
As the track came up and smacked my cheek.
Then I was on a sideline bench, resting with some others.
The heralds were very polite, those young chaps, “Eternal Life!
Eternal Life!” answered by “Remind me later, not right now. Go away!”
I watched the runners as they approached, quite fast,
Hoping to see an opening to fit back in.
But I had run lap after lap and needed some rest,
So there I sat, on the side, and decided to doze . . .
“Sir?
Excuse me, Sir?!
Are you OK?”
I ran the Race of Death, through streets and avenues
Ten miles long in concrete canyons one mile deep,
Past vendors of souvlaki, franks and shish-kebab, with
Lights of red and green marking laps, setting the pace,
An engineer among physicians, lawyers, salesmen,
Vendors, pitch men, plumbers, executives, clerks
And secretaries, credentials not required, come as you are,
Everyone welcome, start when you can -- a strange sort of race.
The crowds came, continually, pressing in, expecting
To line the route, enjoy an afternoon, watch the spectacle,
But instead they became the spectacle themselves,
“In here,” “Start running,” “Keep on going,” “Move it. Now!”
The Man in Grey moved easily through the runners,
Gliding forward, keeping step or falling back,
Turning those he had in mind toward the Tunnel
The only way out, darkened, deep, down down-down.
Far up along the canyon’s edges where flags and pennons
Slapped the wind, a Man in White stood looking thoughtfully
Into the maelstrom. What could he possibly see or hear
That made a difference? A runner offering a helping hand?
Perhaps an offer to carry someone’s burden?
A thank you for a new born infant? A request
For strength against all evil? Or simply to continue the race?
Indications from people whose hearts he had touched.
The crafty Grey One slipped ahead, to lap the field
Come up behind. But no matter, I could see
Runners ahead stumbling, slowing down,
Likely candidates, struggling, falling behind.
I felt no touch, nor heard a word. The sky spun,
The canyon lurched, and ankles and feet ran past my eyes,
As the track came up and smacked my cheek.
Then I was on a sideline bench, resting with some others.
The heralds were very polite, those young chaps, “Eternal Life!
Eternal Life!” answered by “Remind me later, not right now. Go away!”
I watched the runners as they approached, quite fast,
Hoping to see an opening to fit back in.
But I had run lap after lap and needed some rest,
So there I sat, on the side, and decided to doze . . .
“Sir?
Excuse me, Sir?!
Are you OK?”
