violet tree
His Dusty House And Us Silent peasants
What truly sparks my ire in this dusty “home”,
İs Raising my forgotten voice louder than the almighty!
The piano here, still quite new, taunts me,
But what am i to do? The notes I know, exceed where the keys roam.
İ grieve the time spent whistling a note,
You shall never hear from my own mouth.
What is it that you hear, winds from the south?
You give me praise for the sounds that come from a cut throat.
İs it not a king that believes his bare skin is,
the the most exquisite fabric that could be!
Does his nakedness strike the audience’s
taste for mockery, will they watch with tea?
But the tea is in a constant boil, and the pleasure from your pain is his.
Oh dustless piano we are much alike,
İ touch your keys looking for an end to my tedium!
But what greets me is constant blunder, only leading to strife.
Don’t you become irritated over the other furnitures noise?
They are delicate antics of my past,
When he is around don’t we all rust so fast?
They always grind their rusty gears,
Next to my doomed to be ever-listener ears,
Sonorous as they my sound,
They aren’t a grand orchestra.
They have no other listener, only to me they are bound.
İ hear them screech, and my heart unthreads.
İ know they saw me silence, hate the voice of reason…
My sire, as we grew , did not get new beds,
Not in his own house at least, that would be unlike him.
Our two beds were once conjoined,
Now i feel as though us two, have different names we are coined:
When one is an alley, a trader is the other.
When i believe i have behaved well, in another room cries my own brother…
When i look down at the new piano, i ask “What is there to win?
When this house has all our names written on its furniture like an elegy,
When the one who sits atop the throne is a deaf tyrant, who pretends not to be,
When to live in this house is silence and watch him sin?
ancient sundial
faint fable