It was late afternoon,
the beginning of winter, a light snow,
and I was the only one in the small park
to witness the lone boy running
in circles around the base of a bronze statue.
I could not read the carved name
of the statesman who loomed above,
one hand on his cold hip,
but as the boy ran, head down,
he would point a finger at the statue
and pull an imaginary trigger
imitating the sounds of rapid gunfire.
Evening thickened, the mercury sank,
but the boy kept running in the circle
of his footprints in the snow
shooting blindly into the air.
History will never find a way to end,
I thought, as I left the park by the north gate
and walked slowly home
returning to the station of my desk
where the sheets of paper I wrote on