domingo, 31 de março de 2013

Setting out again

I take an old amateurish harp
from under the bed.
I feel the dust dancing around me –
time’s fairies –
and sticking to my finger.
It must have been my great-grandmother's.
Now, it belongs to me—an accident.
The wires crave rust to come eat them.

I reach out for a sheet.
I cannot play it without
(you) following the guidelines.
Now, I just have to follow the dotted line, note after note.

My mind withdraws –
fetal position –
and I see him in front of me.
This makes the distance increase.
Who are you, stranger that I love?
How come you’re here?

The one meant to protect and care for me,
throws words like darts.
They pierce and I cringe.
Your hands are so cold. You look so thin.
Why are you avoiding the mirror,
my friend? Why is your handshake so feeble?
I wish things were like they used to be.
I guess it's too much wishing.

And as he vanishes I see her.
The one who should be someone else.
The one who made me change
Up to a point I was lost and found.

She just made an excuse, mumbled some words,
it's better if..., we'd better stop...
I bowed. I said I agree, you always know what's right
and hugged her,
so that she could not see the tears running down my face.
(They only see what they want.)

Suddenly, I am with them no more.
I feel the warmth and
use my hands to shield my eyes from
a blinding light.
I am the new Elijah!
I did savor the past, feasted on the scraps
they kept throwing me,
like a fucking pigeon.

I climb one step.
I stop to give them a chance to
say goodbye.
Another step, and my soul is peeling off
feelings like dirt.
(but I’m here in my mold?)

I get into this chariot of fire,
softly, gently,
as if it was home.
Where to? the angelic conductor asks
in a firm but melancholy voice.
He sees it as clearly as I do.
To the old me, please.