Friday, September 15, 2017

Learnmore Edwin Zvada writes


A Song

I wrote a song today 
A song of color grey, dull and sad 
An irregular composition such as of an eroded riverbed 
It didn’t tell of the starry night 
It was devoid of the sweet smell of roses on my portico 
So heartless was the song 
It went on and on about suffering and hurt 
It was clad as a loser without purpose and worth

I wrote a song today 
It wasn't a song about love and her immoral cousin lust 
Or was it a sheaf on how my feelings have been toyed with 
By those beefy maidens from downtown 
It lacked ceremony and solemnness 
Or the sublime flow of words that rhyme with emotion

Today I wrote a song 
Too desperate to be heard and worshiped 
Its verses spilt out of me in one breath
But the song breathed not as new born songs ought to 
It lay dead and lifeless like a bag of rotten eggs

So I rubbed off the song I wrote today 
Tore up the piece and set it ablaze on the dying candle fire 
It wept bitterly into flame and smoke 
My own song choked me to tears 
Reason why I wrote this piece to keep her memory 
Lest her ghost comes back to hound me
El violinista -- Oswaldo Guayasamin



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