Shadow shapes from Helsingor

 
On the point of a needle, Hamlet's sad ghost lives and is forced to exist. Across Elsinore, Hyena winds tear his clothes, rattling wildly. Better would it be to go to the dry desert of the Ninevehs, seen by the sand-grains, than to destroy the nimbus of the uncovered daily.

Our bad dreams are always with us. To walk the treadmill of bumpy donkey-ladder careers in the footsteps of opportunists and profiteers. A secret-keeper is seldom if ever the setting, horizon-orbiting star. Years from now the aged executioner will wrap his murder-rope around his stiffened neck.

Splintering piles of bone-skulls now coil everywhere. Their open, sinister poisons drip down to open hearts the vicious juices of secret vials. Yorick's hollow teeth with the careful precision of the great gravediggers, a few sharply thrust.

Truth will be rewarded when new and more exotic Ophelia dare to commit suicide under the weight of their sorrows. On chains of bonded thieves, Polonians will cower with blind acquiescence. It is long since Hamlet will peep behind the curtains of veiled curtains without seeing the carcasses of sacrificial corpses.

To escape from the guilt of responsibilities unnoticed, it is too late, it is feared. With its fetid, sulphurous stench, it would be better if all the little unrepentant little Klaudius kings were to run away.

Hamlet himself is already consoled by the fact that he always has to see something. On vertical paths the loops of time are cut by history. But his shadowy figures wander incessantly...