The Others,
Part II
Et oh, ces voix qui restent des enfants perdus
Chantant dans les cœurs des mères en deuil!
Weialala leia
Frisch weht der Wind, der Heimat zu.
Mein Inneres Kind, wo weilest du?
Out of the homeland, we sing. Wallala leialala.
Faint female voices in their houses murmur words,
"We think we lost the kids; sitting, we think of loss"
While men drink coffee in café-sized man's worlds
Men, young and lost, think of victory at criss cross,
Thoughts of troubles and travel and crossing the seas
Twirl meanwhile in their minds like playful maidens
Where métis blues and mermaid chants never cease.
Blood quickens, gonging in their ears, and awakens
Memories of undesirable sounds, of chiming clocks.
Each fleeting minute the youth's ambitions mocks.
Tick tock, time goes on, and we sing, weialala leia.
National anthem, rarely pondered upon, never sang
Outside schools and battlefields, as a lullaby, never,
Safe when one is asked to, or duty-bound or young.
"Meaninglessness increases as life ceases, my lover,
To surprise us", said Linda, "An espresso, please!"
And she burst into wild laughter at the waiter's face
That was the colour of burnt brass; a colour of unease
"And also, water, aqua leggermente frizzante. In case
You don't have it, aqua liscia." And she stared at Ali.
"Two cups of water", he rearticulated, uncomfortable.
And water, warm with blood inside him, out of the sea
Drowning all life, draining all energy, leaving insatiable
Lust for fire, which Linda had galore in her birth chart.
Like hell's, it fed on lost men she used to make her art.
The God-fearing amid the sitting men avoided looking.
All they could see was flesh; all they could get was sin.
While God's all-seeing eye looked into her naked soul
And angels prayed their lord to have mercy on them all.
Shivers crossed the waiter's Christlike skin as he heard
The sunset prayer fusing with her laughter and he served.
YOU ARE READING
The Others
Poetry"They deceived us, and deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders, bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit." said Loo, feeling almost all-knowing, almost sorry, once she reached the end of Four Quartets, wondering when her story shall begin. An...
