Above, neatly perched on a baroque dome,
Against backdrop of a clear blue sky stood Atlas
Gilded with gold, its lustre blinding the eyes beholding from below
On his back was a globe, and by it, the weight of the world.
Nearby, in front of a palace now turned museum
A man stretches forth an arm, mumbling under cold breath.
He asks for coins – a euro or hopefully two.
The hand, his left hand, the one with which he begs, the one
Not covered in a black wool gloves, bears all the telltale signs:
He's been up and down and a lot of places in between
Yet, he is here, begging for Atlas to carry his weight too
Wishing for a little chip off his gold lustre
But Atlas in stuck in a time loop, spiralling in his own mythology –
A vicious circle of renaissance.
Yet the man is here, before our eyes,
In flesh and blood, and a naked cold hand.
Potsdam, Feb 2018