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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-09-18 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
One more page,
and I'm afraid to fill the book. Listening to 'Flightless Bird', and it always fills me with a spastic crying, my soul gaping in a hypertonus of sadness. One more page, and it feels like a feint-ruled death. You were music to me. You were music to my listening skin, to my beating blood; you were music to my blue eyes, to my green words. You were music to all the nail-scissored sunrises, to all the gas-flamed peacock feathers... Oh, sunrise music! You were music to my strong-sweet-coffee-mornings, to my cold-glass-of-water middle-of-the-nights... One more page, and my book will be silent, deaf and dumb; the book of my life will go in a drawer, the drawer will be closed, and the world will be without the music of you once more. And, how can I live without it? without the music of you? How can I live in a world of matte wall paint and white wardrobe doors; of screwed-up scraps of paper under willow trees, of dead men curled up against buildings in the frost; of dogs with cancerous muzzles; of dropped coins and dog turds on the footpath... How can I live without the music? And, when I can't hear the music any more, where? where, my love... where will the music be?
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