On the night of the forty-sixth day, I dreamed of lightning and thunder, of the bellow of the angel’s trump, of the Gates, spewed wide beckoning to us, the wretched, this way on. But on the forty-seventh day, Time resumed, as it does, always, stretched, splayed, spiralled, a million and one seconds long and winding, unheeding to the deluge of sights and sounds. On the forty-seventh day, The bars outside my windows have rusted. A spider’s thread clings to the husk of an old song. A budding flower, drunk on the lush brew from bottle sprays was trampled under the slipper’s march of nightgowned corpses. On the forty-seventh day, The old woman was carted away. Hers, And a thousand others proudly dead, Bravely dying, row on row, Under this banner of nothing. On the forty-seventh day, A man belled in the night Banging, knocking, thumping, pounding, A lone shriek in the darkness Drowned in a thousand glimmers of quiet lamplight. On the forty-seventh day, A white moon rises. The ants and the bees return home and I remember the beats and coos of winged and vexed things. ~ by P.N. written when mad on day 47 of Shanghai lockdown.
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