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| Subject: Nuit Blanche - A Shard of Silence | |
Author: c (Amy Lowell) | [ Next Thread |
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] Date Posted: 22:23:41 11/01/07 Thu I want no horns to rouse me up tonight, and trumpets make too clamorous a ring to fit my mood, it is so weary white I have no wish for doing any thing. A music coaxed from humming strings would please; not plucked, but drawn from creeping cadences across a sunset wall where some Marquise picks a pale rose amid strange silences. Ghostly and vaporous her gown sweeps by the twilight dusking wall, I hear her feet delaying on the gravel, and a sigh, briefly permitted, touches the air like sleet. And it is dark, I hear her feet no more. A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank. A drunken moon ogling a sycamore, running long fingers down its shining flank. A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown, cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown - kiss me, red lips, and then pass - pass. Music, you are pitiless tonight. And I so old, so cold, so languorously white. [ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ] |