The Coliseum Collage
The spectators all wear white,
the same color
cloaking their heads in cloth.
A bare chested Gladiator
reaching cautiously between the black iron bars
of a cage,
offers something tasteless to a curious,
sniffing
Lion.
It shows no interest.
* * * *
Are the spectators on trial?
Is there a trial?
* * * *
Someone in the audience shouts,
"When do the games begin!?"
The spectators,
chattering away
like any civilized crowd,
hear,
yet deliberately take little notice.
The Hermit though,
squatting against a limestone wall
of an empty walkway,
notices.
"The Emperor starts the games,"
he mutters to himself.
* * * *
Underneath (where no one can look),
many felt that generations would pass
within these very walls,
and that somehow
the game was already afoot.
Why else were they there,
(as far as anyone could remember)
dressed in their simple yet holiday best?
In the meantime,
Some wandered, some waited,
and, as the sky would darken as it always would,
others would hold optimistic candles
and listened, half aware,
to music
that they did not understand,
but hoped to somehow.
At times, a rush of anticipation
would sweep over the crowd,
like a warm wind
waving across a field
of ripe, golden wheat.
The spectators would sit.
Some would sigh;
and gladiators would take positions
that they somehow knew
without apparent rehearsal.
* * * *
A gleaming Chariot charged through the main gate —
on schedule —
kicking up grand dust of who knows who.
The crowd jumps to its feet
cheering wildly
sending startled,
civil birds
to flight.
"It's as if the whole world were here,"
beams the charioteer,
smiling broadly,
waving —
again
at the peak of his glory.
The Sun,
brightly accenting his polished armor,
enhances his magnificence.
Have the games begun?
* * * *
Unnoticed, the Fool,
always ready to miss something,
drops a red petal from his high perch
on the coliseum wall.
It wafts down, like a slow eternity
— which it is —
falling to rest
with a soft, cosmic,
thud
on the Persian-rug floor
of a dream,
where the wisdom of the wise
and of the wizard
and even of the doubtful,
goes unnoticed by all
but the closest at hand.
The soft sound echoes,
like tiny feet
pattering down
the sky-blue
marble
hallway
of infinity:
The music
to which they dance.
And dance they do.
Behind the lyrics of joy and sadness,
of daily expectation,
runs the rhythm of hope
and of ungraspable understanding
and ecstasy.
"Will the music ever cease?"
muses the Hermit,
smiling,
nodding, and turning
to climb the ancient stairs.
"It is the song of Lovers."
* * * *
Night came, once again;
the lights of the coliseum
went dark.
Everyone,
gladiators and spectators alike,
slept in place,
in full dress,
awaiting the morning,
while the rhythm continued,
pulsing gently,
incessantly,
reassuringly,
beneath them.
--------------------------
© 2015 Michael Lamas