Dream Note No. 12 – The Lark

Empty handed on an empty stage,
fingers frozen in a distant past;
forgotten melodies on an empty page,
forgotten friends in a wooden cast.

Which notes recount the summer days,
when dreams of winter imbue my heart?
Which, songs would autumn praise,
no more, he hears of the youthful lark.

For whom, the rainbow? They ride a gale,
riding along an unmarked road;
defiled by his vulgar flail,
redeemed by his Opheliac abode.

Cherished in his bloodstained hand,
memories to their gazes chained;
before the homely gates they stand,
that began with the windows stained.

By the balcony the lovebirds part,
with sweet murmurs of delicate love;
as she falls toward the lavish pines,
as marble before a labyrinth he stands.

The silent intruder the libraries hail,
in arias from his nightly ghost;
down he spirals on a silvery trail,
what courage he finds in this abyssal host.

Still the larks are in peace asleep,
as he steps onto the reminiscent rug;
urgency calls for a unexamined sweep,
for the night too shall return to sleep.

Yet reveries stun his capricious mind,
as old age returns with a blissful light;
as the silvery trail become diamond steps,
from his cello the lark takes flight.

Advertisements
Published in: on 12/09/2019 at 4:54 PM  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , ,

Dream Note No. 11 – White Moscow

Nothing stirs in the early hours,
save the silent falling of moon dust,
onto the windows of the Kremlin towers,
into white hills on the red square.

We trod along the silvery road,
marked each path with our toiling past,
yet the holy tears are silent and cold,
blotting out our fervent errs.

In the outskirts the rustling leaves,
are swaying with the howling gust;
the uninvited guest they must receive,
quivering in the wintry air.

Than deific voices colder still,
silencing silence with mortal casks,
swiftly it faded by the heavenly will,
into red hills on our white despair.

Published in: on 26/02/2019 at 12:43 PM  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , ,