Grue and Bleen

The sky is as blue as his woe;
the swarming rivers are green;
as his tears into the river flow,
his sorrows dissolve into the spring.

Yet still my heart is wrenching,
upon my bones the fog is flooding;
not a feather or petal she has stirred,
not a breath of air has quivered.

I’m sorry, my dear beloved friend;
‘I cannot work’, I cannot rest —
I can hardly even breathe…
As though time herself would cease.

Yet to whom am I to sigh,
save a ghostly being in my mind’s eye?
The ravens are feeding upon me,
they summon my despair eagerly.

I watch the streaming waters
struggling and racing in earth’s vein;
some have fallen onto those quarters
where the mighty grasslands would soon reign.

From the dead we all must rise,
though I am for it no testament;
yet I know too well of my blue reprise,
for the roses know my recurring lament.

‘It seems madam?’ Yes it indeed seems,
as though life has found no boredom in jest;
or perhaps she has this wisdom learned,
of the frailty of a velvet crest.

Not you, nor this maidenly land,
ailed my wretched fluttering hand;
rain has sweetened this peaceful air,
yet infinite sadness enclaves my flair.

Credulous was he of the humankind —
to forests or mountains they may gracefully bind;
too proud we are of our nomadic past,
and now away from all warmth he is cast.

Forgive me, my friend — my blood is blue,
my harmony is diminished in a minor hue;
in threes my sonata can scarcely elude,
’tis merely the season when my trials are due.

Though valiant may be a heart of love,
chasing wisdom until the cosmic end;
yet still, the resurrection of the Stygian dove,
can be fathomed by none but the devil above.

So let it be, let this hour go,
be as it may like the creek who woes;
the creek whom I no longer hear,
like books I have closed in those passing years.

Yet must I deny my truest sentiment?
Must I my own heart in trills mask?
How shall I paint this landscape so fervent,
to sketch a pale face at dusk?

Fryderyk! Let your etudes sing —
trampling through my lifeless grooves!
The rivers have at last become bleen;
forgive me, my life! — For I am grue.

O my dear, don’t get me wrong,
I know by heart the notes of this song;
in the bleak heavens I with my self rejoin — for whom
— in the blazing summer days I sorely longed

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Published in: on 23/04/2018 at 8:31 PM  Leave a Comment  

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