Loneliness has hung upon me
All my life, in all my places,
Not as a grim noose, a memento mori of sorts,
But as the gentlest of reminders.
Sleep, albeit punctual, is always
Deprived of any real rest.
The days, long and boring, drag their feet on,
Devoid of luster and light.
The people around me, dull philistines
Of the basest intellectual estate.
My body itself, though tall and limber,
Is irrecoverably broken and frigid.
My voice, though often plunging low
On the F clef, is unmistakably mute.
How can you call yourselves people?
You terrible Holoferneses, you horrible Polyphemi.
No fleshly pleasure is enough to corrupt me,
No legs in garters or breasts half unveiled.
No sweet words can ever hope to make up
For the echo of the knives that you have drawn,
For they, albeit having not hurt me,
Have been drawn upon me nonetheless.
Neither do I seek solace in your arms,
Nor can one find it in the barren desert that you all are.
I draw not a sword upon you, enough has been done
In this frigid limbo, this judgement sans judge,
For an unmendable chasm has been torn inbetween,
Across which no apology and no tears will bridge.
How frightening's our life! Caesar's wife
Must be above suspicion.
There is unbearable solitude in your company
And endless filth in your feverish speech.
Your gestures are innumerable bayonets
In which you impale dead whatever last trace
Of humanity you can lay your vampiric, leeching hands on,
You monsters, you oh so many butcherers.
14 septembrie 2022.
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