Celestials at the Board of Projects burst into laughter,
For one of them has designed a hedgehog,
Another, not to be left behind, a soprano;
Eyelashes, a bust, and ringlets, plenty of ringlets.

It is superb fun in the ocean of seething energy,
Among bursts and clacks announcing electric currents.
Buckets of protocolors gurgle, protobrushes labor,
A mighty whirl of almost galaxies beyond nearly windows
And pure radiance that has never experienced clouds.

They blow conchs, somersault in protospace,
In their realm of archetypes, the seventh heaven.
The earth is practically ready, its rivers sparkle,
Forests cover it, and every single creature
Waits for its name. Thunder strolls the horizon
But the herds in the grass do not lift their heads.

Towns come to be, narrow streets,
A chamber pot poured out a window, laundry.
And immediately freeways to the airport,
A monument at a crossroads, a park, a stadium
For thousands when they get up and roar: goal!

To invent length, width, height,
Two times two and the force of gravity
Would be quite enough, but on top of it panties
With lace, a hippopotamus, the beak of a toucan,
A chastity belt with its terrible teeth,
A hammerhead shark, a visored helmet,
Plus time, that is, a division into was and will be.

Gloria, gloria, sing objects called to being.
Hearing them, Mozart sits down at the pianoforte
And composes music that had been ready
Before he himself was born in Salzburg.

If only it could last, but no way.
It iridesces, passes, turns inside a soap bubble
Together with an invocation the Celestials address to mortals:

"Oh, dizzy tribe, how not to look at you with pity!
Your bright rags, your dances
Seemingly profligate but in truth pathetic,
Mirrors in which you leave a face with earrings,
Painted eyelids, eyelashes with mascara.
Oh, to have so little, nothing except feasts of love!
How feeble your defense against the abyss!"

And the sun rises and the sun sets,
And the sun rises and the sun sets
While they go on running, running.

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book of days