In the darkness of the night, he stood up, ignoring the sleeping soul beside him. He moved stealthily, heading towards an adjacent room. At his desk, surrounded by cupboards creaking under the heavy weight of dusty books with worn covers, he sat down and lit the candle, the wax melting visibly. He picked up a quill, the same colour as the midnight sky and the ink that flowed over the paper.
It is in the dark of night,
That my flame burns brightest, alight.
Inspiration takes hold of my soul,
Where my fingers glide over the scroll,
And I write with such fervent might,
That it nearly fills me with fright.
Is there a way out of this plight,
Or must I fade into the night?
Can I not live without this constant dread,
That devours my heart and fills my head,
Driving me mad,
And smashing my skull, so sad?
Must I live my life in this endless fear,
With no respite ever near?
The worst would be to fall in love, so true,
Why must I yearn for the wrong half, too?
Why?
Why?
Some of the letters spilled onto the paper, the ink blackening and running like tears raining down on the white paper like innocent love. The quill collapsed on the rest, spoiling the elegant handwriting and transforming it into a distorted, altered calligraphy, just like its owner. He bent over his writing case, shaking, only his silent cries echoing through the room. The moon's rays poured through the panes of the window into the living room, the only witness to his suffering and the pain in his heart.
YOU ARE READING
Fables of La Source ✓
Historia CortaThis is a collection that includes several fables inspired by the style of La Fontaine, as well as chapters recounting the life of the fabulist, Célestin de La Source. Dive into the heart of a France set between the 17th and 18th parallels. Cautious...
