rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The landscape grows sere, and the smell of dry brown grass fills the air. The scent of it persists even when night's cooling comes. I'm glad it isn't the smell of smoke. When it gets this hot the only smoke we'd be likely to smell would be from a wildfire. When it gets this hot nobody in town wants to go out and fire up their barbecue. Thus no smell of charcoal and roasting flesh competes with the smell of dry brown grass. But the air indoors was so arid today that I had to boil a pot of water (there bing no humidifier handy), and I was tempted to put a bit of extract of some sort in it—vanilla perhaps— just to make a change from the relentless smell of that dry brown grass. Instead, I decided to wait and put the sprinkler on my brown lawn once full night has fallen. Then the air will smell of wet brown grass instead of dry brown grass. Ah, summer.

Sunday Verse

A Song On the End of the World

by Czeslaw Milosz

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.

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