Elide V. Oliver

EKPHRASIS OF THE FLOOD LEONARDO
NEVER PAINTED

It is not the tempestuous waters, sudden tsunamis,
whirlpools of darkness and fear
where contorted bodies strive in vain
to keep heads above, fatigued arms
that let go broken beams in a final dive,
a string of children followed by fathers and mothers
drowning, in desperation,
no one was saved, for no one was innocent
before the vengeful deity.

But the stream of your village overflows
leaving extreme mud, no fertilizing Nile
though, no hopes of eternity.
The crops are gone, the hut is gone.
The birds congregate on a tree
where a cat is sitting still,
but there will be no feast this time;
No hunt or chase, no hunger satisfied.
Only the chilly rain of the past days, a monolith
falling drop by drop onto impervious rock.

Until the longings for the lost rings,
the lost photos, the lost belongings,
douse the skin, soak the veins, drench the eyes,
here comes the drunkard, a clown
with a sailor's gait upon a plank; there, up an unending
ladder goes the fat, a Comus without the laughter:
I want! I Want! you want, we want
what is wanting, what we want;
Turn back the clocks or shut them down,
Stop all the winds so the scales stand
still, after all, it is a still nature
what I see, from here, a composition with Man
a nature morte, after all.

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