The Puppeteer

The puppeteer works from midnight to noon
Then from noon to night again
Six days he makes the strings dance
Six nights he makes the air boom.
One puppet he carved to look like his own self,
Shiny shoes and a wandering eye
Spiders, snakes and a lizards head
And a smile so sweet it would drop you dead.
This puppet danced the dance of war
And proud to look like the maker's face,
Held all other puppets in his thrall.
Not peace he sought; but with his stiff wooden hands
Tried to hold the strings of other things,
So when he danced, those painted suits danced too,
Thinking they had wings.
This puppet, whose name perhaps was George,
Perhaps lived in a painted heaven
Perhaps slept behind a yellow curtain,
His painted face turned to the strange stars.
He knew that his future looked uncertain
But his painted eyes could shed no tears.
the old puppeteer, now bent and grey with age
No longer had the eyesight nor the belief to take those strings
Yet still the puppets danced.
The danced to the music of the shrapnel symphony,
Waltzed to Woland's whim,
George proclaimed he danced for the puppeteer -
Really he danced for him.
We are all puppets on those long yellow strings
Held in gross and lifeless hands,
Cut the ribbons that cross your wrists
And see the painted smile hide those painted fists
See the tears flow and know that we never more will rest.
We all must dance.

Hopeful.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijz1CdUj5fg&feature=related