(More truth than fiction…!)
“What have you there?” asked the Pecan Watchman
of Miraflores, Lima, Peru: who loved Pecans, Poetry and the Andean Cultures;
perhaps that was the best thing about him, other than his craft and trade.
“Yes,”
said the poet, “my gold watch, can you fix it?”
“Oh, but it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.”
And thus, the pecan watchman, who had no name, chewing on a
pecan—thinking in his brain, took an exacting look through a magnifying glass…
‘Oh,’ thought the poet, ‘what a great factory reflected in there, in
which all the people were hiding.’
It was most interesting to think that those entire wheels being pulled
down, to and fro, and those at the other
end were struggling upwards…around, around, around, like windmills catching in
grooves, each helping the other to make its face tick and move, all because of
orchards of wheels with: ruts, grooves, all harmonizing.
“Bah!” says the Poet, and away it went into the hands of the Pecan
Watchman, nibbling on a pecan—and away he hacked away and pulled at them, while
cracking open shelled pecans. And he held the watch as still as any little
maiden and put a new spring in it, and pulled out the old: which looked like a
labyrinth loosely unwound, open-ended.
“Yes,” said the Pecan Watchman, “one can see easy enough it was the
spring,” and now everything was working: no longer like a dead factory, but
rather like some great city, as: Paris, Lima—London, or even New York City:
ticking away, making the face on the watch smile once again.
#3389 (8-14-2012) Poetic Prose (Written in Lima,
Peru)
For:
Fernando Nakamoto I.
