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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384055" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Suicide of a Moderate Dictator</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;<br>leak from the dangling telephone earphones<br>sapping the festooned switchboards' strength;<br>fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,<br>—the vague, slight unremarkable contents<br>of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers<br>like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,<br>crocking the way the unfocused photographs<br>of crooked faces do that soil our coats,<br>our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Today's a day when those who work<br>are idling. Those who played must work<br>and hurry, too, to get it done,<br>with little dignity or none.<br>The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters <br>crash down. But anyway, in the night<br>the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets<br>and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment's splashed<br>even to the first floors of apartment houses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is a day that's beautiful as well,<br>and warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw<br>the dogs being walked along the famous beach<br>as usual, in a shiny gray-green dawn,<br>leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.<br>The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish,<br>segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.<br>At eight two little boys were flying kites.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Bishop">Elizabeth Bishop</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384055" data-title="Suicide of a Moderate Dictator de Elizabeth Bishop" data-description="This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards' strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays;..."></div>
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