“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes...”
Lear's mind turns to water,
a lone drop gathering courage,
for a suicide leap
from the edge of heaven.
A perfect crystal screaming
towards the patchwork,
growing squalid with each tumble
through the cotton ball sky.
To crash violently on the sidewalk,
painting a circle of darker gray.
A mirror of clear blood,
to the heart of the stone. Desperate
brothers and sisters jump
after by dozens,
keeping the stairs wet until morning.
Why flee heaven so quickly?
Are the harps out of tune?
Are the stories of angels so dull?
The fool sings an answer:
“He that has and a little tiny wit—
With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain—
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
For the rain it raineth every day.”