Song on a Zither

They say the ancient zither gives a mournful sound, melancholy and quiet in its resonance. I hear it now, strings resounding in the way water does in the winter before freezing over. I hear time flow in those strings, hear it flow as a stream in a cavern far away from human ears, except for mine. There is a spirit here, and she has overtaken me, a muse perhaps, or a widow, telling my fingers to write before the song ends. A pavillion swept by early winter wind. A figure sits alone. They say the instrument’s sound is mournful, melancholy, quiet, and so is she as her form takes the stillness of stone. There is a stone like that on a distant mountain, shaped like a woman waiting for her love to return, knowing that he never will. There have been women like that in every century, just like the one now whose slender, pale fingers reach over mine over the keyboard. Her instrument is gone, and a keyboard is no zither, but when you have waited for centuries and are waiting still, perhaps even the soft tapping of keyboard keys, like rain on a windowpane, is melancholy. I let the thrumming notes vibrate the very sinews of my heart, tilt my head to hear the woman whispering in my ear. She has to go, she tells me, the song is about to end. Soft notes like soft goodbyes. Mournful, melancholy, quiet.

Play of Light

As if to escape unnoticed when the night at last comes to extinguish them, the final rays of sun at five in the evening slip through the slant of my window and linger over my eyes, imploring me to let them stay. As I squint in their presence I see, across the screen, similar rays streaked across one of many faces. The face, like mine, is divided, half light, half shadow, with brightness pressing softly along the cheekbones, dipping along the curves around the nose. Slowly, he and I are being transformed by the light. They say metamorphosis is a strange and wondrous thing, that no one really knows what it looks like. But here is a metamorphosis before my very eyes, as bones reconstruct and flesh moulds to bone, all rippling under smooth, glowing skin. And my face is no longer mine just as the face in the screen is no longer his. And then—eyes flash in recognition—there you are, in the face of another, like in some cruel mirror in which you have been cursed to stay. I cannot bear to look at you, for even in this virtual world it seems your eyes are piercing my mind, imploring me to let you go, you whose image has been conjured by a play of light.

Traduction libre de Verlaine

High above the rooftops is a serene and still blue. In that hush of blue, winds cradle boughs of green. Traced against that cloudless blue, a distant steeple chimes. Nestled in a bough of green, a bird trills a lullaby. There, just there, life is softly rippling. There, just there, city life is murmuring. What have you done, I wonder… Tears fall, pool, ripple…What have you done, please tell me, with your spring years?

Night Nothings

Sweet nothings, but not so sweet, just raw—bitter with regret, salty with tears, sweet with memory. Sweet nothings, but not nothing—they are everything you missed the chance to say, to hurl at an unfaithful lover, to whisper to the one you once thought would be the love of your life. Now you borrow the cloak of night to chant your song, borrow the magic of midnight to craft a curse sealed with a kiss. But that kiss better burn because, deep down, you are raging still. Like sparks your tearful words rise into the night, confusing fireflies, envying the stars. Like sparks they fade into nothing, a mere wisp of smoke in a sea of clouds. Drunk on darkness you find your tears almost romantic, which only makes you cry more. But the morning will be better because weeping is the best kind of sleeping potion. Morning will be better because oblivion is the quilt under which we dream and you will fall asleep very, very soon.