I hear not the songs of the flutes or harps, nor the rhythmic cry of drums,
I cannot realise the tunes of the strings nor the chimes when struck by hand.
As much as I try, I hear naught but noise, cold sounds in an empty pot,
Dead echoes of an attempt to create by hand what belongs to the world.
These sounds, they bear no life in my ears, stir no pangs in my lonely heart,
For they are made by those who cannot feel, by those who cannot hear the truth,
The truth that what they make is farce, a lifeless recreation of the wonder of wonders,
Like an unblinking statue of wax, which will look as real as truth in the eyes,
But is also a standing lie, which can’t feel nor breathe nor warm nor love,
For it cannot seek to touch what is so far beyond its tiny reach.
The breeze rustles the rushes tall, that whisper secrets on the hem of my skirt,
Clinging, lingering upon the soft lace, like a lover unwilling to let it go.
My clear eyes lift to the clouds, which darken like a dimming theatre hall,
And the wind meanders through the grass and chimes upon the rocky ground,
And whistles lowly in my ears, like instruments tuning for the concert.
My cold lips which rarely smile off late, now turn up at their corners,
As I hear the drums of my waiting heart beat a rhythm upon my sternum
Waiting, expecting, rushing like the flying wind, for the music to begin.
I lean back in my wicker chair and crane my neck back to the clouds,
Like a swan of white, open mouthed to catch the whistling breeze.
Bliss envelopes me like a sweet cocoon as the wind sings her melodies,
Her arms curling around me tight, the embrace of the sweetest mother of all.
I laugh aloud as lightning flashes and the thunder rolls, like the beats upon the timpanis,
All while the rain sings with the wind, as it sings to me our special song.
The song is sung by coquettish chimes as the wind steals kisses from the metal and wood,
It is sung by the streams that rush over stones, protecting them like a mother wolf.
It is sung by the rocks who beat in time with the rain soothing their faces,
And the trees who reach out to the skies with their arms cloaked with foliage.
And the passion of the rain’s embrace as it sings its blinding euphoria to me
Cools my lonely aching soul and fills my heart like a pitcher with no end,
But slowly, the music dies away and the song begins to fade.
The wind dies down to a simple breeze, which touches my arms like a consoling friend,
And the sky brightens as the sun breaks through, for the song is gone, the concert is over,
And my rain, whom I had trusted to stay, breaks free from my side and forsakes me.
And I’m left with naught but cold, wet arms and raven hair which clings to my face,
With raindrops that linger like a memory not lost, which roll down my cheeks like helpless tears.
The sun’s warmth spreads on my neck and back, soaking up remnants of the rain before,
And as much as I plead for it to stop, the sun is relentless and takes it away.
And I’m left alone with nothing but the squelching mud upon my bare feet and skirt,
Staining the white lace like a lover’s bite, like a mark of what was for a while, mine.
And I’m left so cold, in spite of the sun, as empty and spent as a barley husk,
Wondering at the cruelty of the truths of the world that takes as it pleases, as it wills,
And I throw my question to the skies that shine, with a morbid joy that cannot be mine,
At why they would choose to steal from me the one sole thing that was my own.
But my voice falls to a hoarse, faint crack as the screams die to a faded haze
And my tears burn like flaming tracks upon my dry and hapless cheeks.
My deadened eyes fall to my hands, now phantoms upon my stunted limbs,
And recall the day they were torn away and lost in a twist of blades and glass.
And my heart weighs in my hollowed chest as I recall the feel of the strings of the harp,
Their sweet grace upon my fingers as they wove melodies of wonders and dreams
And the knowledge then stabs at me again, but I feel no pain, for I am numbed,
And I shed no more tears, for my wells are dry; there are naught left to me to shed.
The wind sings a promise that there shall be storms, that I will again hear the song of the rain,
And I can hear true melodies again once more, and until then , I must hear tunes of liars,
who dare to say that they play real music, a joy that shall nevermore be mine,
And leave me to wait for the skies to darken, to wait for the concert to begin again.
