週六 9月 08, 2012 9:31 pm
Artificial Limbo
She sat before the autoclave, waiting.
There were six bottles of 1L tap water inside,
Each wearing a loose blue, round hat
And a piece of tape of divine omen.
She imagined inside the autoclave
To be filled with screaming and wailing of those
Bacteria, viri, fungi, who, with the
Travellers that tabooed the forbidden land,
Are all dying, dying, dying...
She has nothing else to do,
But to listen to marche funèbre,
Beating to the rhythm with her heart.
“My score is thicker,
But the eventual fine shall come.”
She levitates in life,
Hesitates and trapped.
Too great is the Earth for analogy.
Too great is a spinning top.
“Then, the Pseudomonas fluorescens
That dances the black waltz.”
She waited until 70 degree Celcius,
When the door finally opened.
The tape of beige had been ringed
With ribbons of black Stigamata.
Her latexed hand
Screwed tight the blue tops.
“Worthy efforts that deserve rests,
Innumerable deaths you have repeatedly borne.
This chilling laboratory is your burning limbo.”
She took off her white robe.
The automatic doors opened for her,
Who thought as she left:
“Men made autoclaves;
Then who’s to question the depth of Hell?
Go, go, beloved microbes,
I shall be with you in a moment.”
She sat before the autoclave, waiting.
There were six bottles of 1L tap water inside,
Each wearing a loose blue, round hat
And a piece of tape of divine omen.
She imagined inside the autoclave
To be filled with screaming and wailing of those
Bacteria, viri, fungi, who, with the
Travellers that tabooed the forbidden land,
Are all dying, dying, dying...
She has nothing else to do,
But to listen to marche funèbre,
Beating to the rhythm with her heart.
“My score is thicker,
But the eventual fine shall come.”
She levitates in life,
Hesitates and trapped.
Too great is the Earth for analogy.
Too great is a spinning top.
“Then, the Pseudomonas fluorescens
That dances the black waltz.”
She waited until 70 degree Celcius,
When the door finally opened.
The tape of beige had been ringed
With ribbons of black Stigamata.
Her latexed hand
Screwed tight the blue tops.
“Worthy efforts that deserve rests,
Innumerable deaths you have repeatedly borne.
This chilling laboratory is your burning limbo.”
She took off her white robe.
The automatic doors opened for her,
Who thought as she left:
“Men made autoclaves;
Then who’s to question the depth of Hell?
Go, go, beloved microbes,
I shall be with you in a moment.”
