I have been asked by
hundreds of children - How do Cymbals come into existence? The answer is
simple. They happen when the music hits the light.
Sweet Mother Night, now let your purple cloak enfold us.
Your fingers in mine, a bridge of tendons and bone. Your
voice like the low wind in the grove. I can smell eucalyptus when your mouth opens.
Our wine is abandoned – the gloaming is our cup.
The company has faded, you’re singing only for me. Your
voice is the gift and I’m on my knees to receive it. There are tombs on either
side of us, incised into the velvet of the sky. When this city falls, we will
have again what we always did: dust and rock, bush and tomb.
There is a holiness which has no eternity in it, which will
not survive the light of day. This is the unwritten present, the taste of
possibility. You are not old, and I am not young. We are all ageless in the
loose grasp of the purple night. Look at me now. I’m made of bronze. This is
no less than you deserve, and it’s all we have on earth.
That Petrol Emotion - Stories of the Street - 1991
(a cover of a Leonard Cohen original)
In our transient city lies an eternal necropolis. All of these tombs are full of those, who were once like you
and me. They let their flesh have penury, and the souls eternal night. The rest
of the world is sleeping. We are those the night has bound till dawn. Your hair
catches the light of the lanterns in the trees. Lean your lips into mine. There
is not another world, and the one allowed us is dying.
No comments:
Post a Comment