.
Boredom sets in first, and then despair.
One tries to brush it off. It only grows.
Something about the silence of the square.
Something is wrong; something about the air,
Its color; about the light, the way it glows.
Boredom sets in first, and then despair.
The muses in their fluted evening wear,
Their faces blank, might lead one to suppose
Something about the silence of the square,
Something about the buildings standing there.
But no, they have no purpose but to pose.
Boredom sets in first, and then despair.
What happens after that, one doesn’t care.
What brought one here—the desire to compose
Something about the silence of the square,
Or something else, of which one’s not aware,
Life itself, perhaps—who really knows?
Boredom sets in first, and then despair…
Something about the silence of the square.
