The thin dampness of a stone, upon which I reposed my head,
made me smile today. It was not the
thought of a cuddled name, nor was it the share of the theatrical life we
lead. No. I was aloof unto myself, as sunsets help me
to celebrate, upon that stone where I lowered my front. There I met the tremors which had escaped me,
and I called them home.
I stressed a grin in resignation and undertook the simplest
road to the troubled bay, hoping it would remind me of a distant blue sea. It did not.
Yet, in the silly tempest of ordinary things, I learned how to meet the
whirling of goodbyes.
The purpose of each day is not to survive them. The ennui of protracted benevolence to the
slow passage of pleasures is the fear of having them. It is folly, or at least untimely entrapment,
to forego the colors and richness of sunsets without a poem to share. And the fires of verse cannot hold your heart
for long without the depth of brown eyes, near the troubled bay where you bathe
your chaste tremors, and let them escape you.
You will let your heart forget its cunning but you will not
share it with the Muse asking to bathe in the froth of your day. Friend, let
her play your harp, let her sound your lyre, let her fall in those pleasant
places where you hide your anti-self.
Sorrow is silent only when you know her; till then, sorrow is pain and
pleasure, and distractingly so. Let her
play your harp, all anguish ends in intercourse with yourself.
… The thin dampness of a stone, upon which I had a dream,
reminded me of the frivoly all quarrels eventually display. And I imposed, in a fateful way, my verse
upon her memory, as if the sweep of my fear from lonesome eyes, at sunset.
December 11, 2013
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013
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