Pavane for a Dead Quill Murdered by Princess Rosie on the Dark Persian Carpet, in C Minor

What have we here? A crime scene!

What drama is this? A quill on its belly!

Where is the cat? Hiding under the table!

O my poor dear quill! Sleep, sleep.

In a throne of oak and neckless of silver,

the wine washes her most delicate feather.

Loneliness her friend with songs of wisdom,

an angel befits not this worldly weather.

One cannot fathom the sufferings of a swan,

to journey beyond this country town.

Vaults of treasures in hearts they hold,

such greed of being shall weigh them down.

Endless wanderings of a curious soul,

with nothing else but a loving heart.

Yearning for love she fell onto this soil,

yet she hears nothing but requiems der lark.

O! What will she had for all her being!

Alas! The apple cannot but fall from the tree.

Uncertainty her fate in the hands of her master,

who mastered the finest art of murder.

The skeletal remains, the feathers soaked in blood.

Unconditional forgiveness, unconditional love.

In her grave she weeps, not of her fate.

But of the ignorance of her murderer of her heart.

The finale sings the sea of tears.

Tears of gratitude for this most meaningful art.

Published in: on 08/02/2015 at 11:48 PM  Leave a Comment  

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