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Where Will the Music Be?

2 min lectură·18 septembrie 2010

Mediu

One more page,

and I\'m afraid to fill the book.

Listening to \'Flightless Bird\',

and it always fills me with a spastic crying,

my soul gaping in a hypertonus of sadness.

One more page,

and it feels like a feint-ruled death.

You were music to me.

You were music to my listening skin,

to my beating blood;

you were music to my blue eyes,

to my green words.

You were music to

all the nail-scissored sunrises,

to all the gas-flamed peacock feathers...

Oh, sunrise music!

You were music to my strong-sweet-coffee-mornings,

to my cold-glass-of-water middle-of-the-nights...

One more page,

and my book will be silent, deaf and dumb;

the book of my life will go in a drawer,

the drawer will be closed,

and the world will be without the music of you

once more.

And, how can I live without it?

without the music of you?

How can I live in a world of matte wall paint

and white wardrobe doors;

of screwed-up scraps of paper under willow trees,

of dead men curled up against buildings in the frost;

of dogs with cancerous muzzles;