An Orphan

In a haze, where his own fingers are lost
in a white darkness. From the unknown,
as if the broken lyre of Orpheus is sought
for an intermittent melody he disowned.

The piano keys are struck and caressed
by an alabaster hand. A familiar song,
or a mourning pavane? From the silent
quarters where not even ghosts haunt. 

For the romping of a carriage he calls,
from that old cathedral — desolate, alone,
abandoned by the rampage of modernity,
by the verdant sprouts and the rotting bones.

Heartless or heartful? Master or slave —
to the world or to the will; or perhaps beyond
all good and evil? Like that eerie, suave
Idiot who loved and only loved for none
but the lonely heart, and for hearts to save
with all his blood, his sense, his wrongs.

None would hear — when the buried
histories forged his patchy mail, and honed
his eternally crumbling, burning, flurried
rub that is his mellow, sacrificial tone;
like the frame of a cello without her post,
confused, helpless, suffocating for a parlance;
or that silver string on Sor’s guitar —
improper, treacherous, knocked off his balance.

At last the piece must end, for all
the crescendos and fermatas we have yet known.
A lost light must in this world fall,
for the air across the field of tombstones.

Memories encircle as the music plays;
raindrops into the river flows — long
to return, or perhaps only Gaea’s chassés?
Still in a haze, to nowhere he belongs.

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Published in: on 25/05/2018 at 12:30 AM  Leave a Comment  

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