24-11-2002

   

 

Elegy to a great mind.

 

Sleeping. Dead. Disappeared.

Deceased. Eeerie but gentle chill beneath the sheets.

Old-dated memories about a promising mathematic.

 

...cold, cold, "sweet" cold air under your warm smile, a chilling sense of

wonder, gently hidden beneath your eyes-wide-shut, a deafening unexpressive pain

has painted your face, an embarassingly thin look for an immense mind, how could

it be?... HOW could it be?... Your long legs lying between bed and floor, while

your soul swingin' among old-dated memories, memories of a brief but undeniably

glorious past, a living genius now wrapped around dead geniuses' arms, much

warmer than expected, they rightly welcome you on the Planet of the Great

Disappeared, wishing you all the best, while the tragic game of life has already

done the rest. Mother weeping on your steady head, no moving, no breathing, no

screaming, no sound from your arrogant, highly expressive voice. The law of

absurdity lies inside your switched-off body, no more pain, no more joy and no

more marvels from your unreachably rich, unique brain. Useless

is the question, pathetical will be the answer, I can only manage to observe you

as if you were alive and lively, tremendously happy and willing to invent a new

life for us newcomers of the unknown. Where are you I don't know, I don't have

to know. I MUST not know. Deep inside my corrupted heart a tiny, shiny light

there is, sure it can't go away, sure it is your smile breathing, bringing warm

sadness and explosive gladness, that is my very last goodbye to a nicely nasty

fellow, before he can hear the angel bell,

announcing the holy beginning of a new, peaceful adventure; no heroes, this

time, and no secrets of crime. And while your grave will remain eeriely spoiled

and empty, cold and dark, up there, somewhere else among the wawing clouds I

will see your body wandering along with your typical sarcasm annoying every soul

populating the Heaven, whether it is an angel or a messenger, Jesus or Moses,

and will hear your loud, smokey voice requiring clear and unequi-vocable

objections.

The objections of a he-was-once-in-his-brief-lifetime-a-Genius.

My very own Genius.

And my very own, nicely nasty fellow.

 

Telemaco Pepe

 

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