Dream Note No. 16 – The Slaughter of the Lambs

I

Before my eyes the dark clouds open,
as I watch the sad fate for a pack of five,
who rides the train to a nearby haven,
led by a young prince and his father’s wife.

In this village a mansion resides,
wherein a butcher in white cloak hides,
by the name of ‘Dr.’ he holds his knife,
lacerating corpses on his holy bed.

On the young man’s back I count scars,
marking the hearts that hallowed blood,
ensnared on his bed the warrior lies,
as I with others watch from behind bars.

With mastery Dr. pinches the scalpel,
opening up the young man’s corpse,
with skills the Dr. takes hold of the liver,
and with care a piece is cleanly carved.

And to the heart still via arteries attach,
the youth mindlessly endures this bane,
with mechanical vice the heart they slash,
I am the youth, in this painless pain.

As fears burn in those marbled eyes,
as silent screams deafened the scene,
as time freezes in a fleeting chaos,
the Dr. leaves, from the exit in.

Now in the garden of aubergine and bleen,
Alice sits on the limestone fence,
in mystical airs shrouded we are,
I become Alice, with half a heart.

As I, Alice, conjures up a plan,
to escape the menace we don’t understand,
as our pack hustles to the river side,
by rusted buildings, by the glimmering night.

On the other side it seems we were,
ashore the sea that feeds this river,
trembling, we pushed him off the rocks,
as deadly silence consumed all light.

Although we prayed that he be drowned,
yet we know the truth we do not crown; now
all roads are lost, in this perilous night,
so we scramble to find the evil in sight.

Yet none could see a sign of him,
for sure in the sewers, are paths before paved,
so we dare not return to the peaceful abode,
but nor have we anywhere else to go.

II

In the quarantined city of Peter’s garden,
the stench of chlorine assaults my senses.
There is a map, always in sight,
in the south-western quarter we reside.

We slaughtered them, those suicidal fiends,
this apocalyptic residence we carelessly rinsed,
on the second floor of a once lavish apartment,
overlooking a street, by an avenue cleansed.

Admiralteyskaya, the northern hub,
at the end of the first turn from our street,
two stations away from this northern hub,
stands our office in the south-east.

Again we are, a pack of five:
a couple, our boss, and a light-hearted girl;
little did we know, the fiends had returned,
as we round Admiralteyskaya whirl.

By our bend, ourselves we stall,
we dare not return to the hanging hall,
the couple, the girl are somewhere now,
as our boss return to office somehow.

I enter, on three tranquil soul,
afore the ornate mirror I call;
she floats over, we make love.
The city crumbles, into dust.

(Music: Lubomyr Melnyk “Fallen Trees”)

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  
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