My head is heavy; my spine is stiff;
my nauseating vessel quavers atop this cliff,
as if death is the exit of this sleepless dream;
I am ill in this season of blossoms and grief.
We are moths diving into the hell of others,
for the affirmation of life they seem to bring;
to the shapes and moods of order we cling,
for none save our angst of life’s unruly slings.
Yet do you know that in this inviting gathering,
our glasses are of the same poisoned springs?
When the earth has naught save plagued soil,
our ideals shall be buried under our mortal coil.
Under a candle’s lead at this whimpering desk,
a lone soul stares into the unfathomable abyss;
even for Mahler is this too long a rest,
but the self must be forged in an illuminated bliss.
The right is untrue for beauty must be beheld,
yet beauty cannot be in the eyes of the beholder,
for true artistry has through the seasons dwelled,
our hearts for life with our hands grow fonder.
The golden leaves shall my long fermata grace,
just as Euterpe has visited Fryderyk’s court;
yet whose tears would for our shadows trace
— are we not but dreaming in a persistent fall?
