The timekeeper

The timekeeper leans his finger against

the instant, broaching itself like fireworks,

regularly strolling during the game's

posteriority. All are looking for

the ball, up and down, some thousands of five-

sided snakeheads. Tenacious, the umpire

persists in whistling bureaucraticly:

tedious match. The timekeeper falls asleep

and time seems to be come to a full stop.

Outside some other referees allow

invisible bloods for the followers:

unequal combat. But, notwithstanding,

the unbribable greyish cricket, so

omnipresent as tendencious, looks hard

at the circle only, speedy displaced,

or also slowly, quite slowly, and it

doesn't surmount the cosmic resistance,

the membranous parquet's effort, failure,

human and inexorable if will

coexists in frontiers areas. The mind

of the referee rises off the ground

beyond current horizons making up

the players theatrical market. White

borders, one pitch and spectators, confined

to the tiers, polite masters of soft salt

pop corn. The timekeeper, in spite of that

supposed by darkened visionary ones,

is just a vulgar voyeur of some free

and curved corporal surfaces, pastime

dressing his comfort with phosphorescent

clothes's colours. A good nibble well

savoured and enjoyed by the timekeeper.