Sonata in B-flat minor

Macabre lines to the earth they cling,
as the mourning in soaked mud tread;
tender phrases from the Tuileries springs,
whose tears they lead under a rainbow thread?

For whom the funeral march arose?
Had the deceased for it proposed?
Only the living shall the sorrows bear,
though none knows of a soul most drear.

For whom the funeral march plays?
Was she not his last berceuse?
In time shall all thoughts die and fade,
save a journey from the fated gate.

The pathos of love is death alone,
for love conquers all worldly affairs;
the pathos of death has to love been sewn,
for else would death be in peaceful airs.

Like an old friend she visits again,
bringing the keys to his forgotten notes,
of times under scornful arrows,
of a stubborn youth who embraced his foes.

Has rust or glaze the sword concealed?
A story, story under an old swan quill;
of roses he dreamt in that barren cart,
only famished soil breeds wine and art.

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Published in: on 04/11/2018 at 1:09 AM  Leave a Comment  

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