Chapter 88
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Chapter 88
Fragments of a lost poem by an anonymous author
I.
As the ancient carriage drew along the dirt,
the carriage's wheels whispered rivulets of grating noise which sounded like hail,
mingled with the hoarse cry of bats from above,
and the crooked spokes clacked like skeletons across the mud.
II.
The heavy dirge of the wind and thick leaves gave ceremony
to the harsh staccato of Ghezel's skeleton in its coffin, and draped it
with that funereal harmony which eludes life itself.
The carriage that bore her to the funeral now stood bare.
III.
People make an uproar on earth about the virtues,
and moral struggles, yet, as a nation mourns, its fondest praises of virtue are poured
liberally across the fresh graves, and sainthood drenches them.
So also Ghezel, whose burial was flowered with passionate eulogy.
IV.
Fantasies and epic stories are just a pale reflection
of the reimagined life of the dead in their eulogies,
where their sins are absolved, and they are saints and heroes.
It is the curse of fabulists to always have an ear to the grave.
V.
Ghezel's ruptured body had torn easily apart
during the long, rough carriage ride to her funeral.
Were she alive, would the new pain eclipse the praise
or would she still bask in the saintliness bestowed to her?
VI.
A coffin-laden carriage departs at late afternoon
to a domain oft wished for, where all praise,
prayer and worship is found: the funeral.
Wisdom's words drift the air like soft dusk light:
if you crave unstinting praise, then die young.
Sonnet VII.
Like a trained model for paintings, you move from pose to pose,
each imbued with a pathos that an actress may envy.
Yet you still want for a painter, someone to brush
your features flat against the canvas, and plant
their imagination across your skin like varnish,
to complete the product. I would offer to
be your painter, but I know you will charge
a steep commission, and it would tax me
too much when my family has debt to pay
greedy moneylenders. Else they shall demand
my body in payment, and I as their slave!
Ah, but what if I repaid the debt, and they used
the money to pay your commission, so gaining
your body instead of mine? Then you would enjoy the fate which I had feared.
Tree of Life
The weaving of dead, grey bark
like a river unceasing
flows upwards to the canopy-
horizon of life.
This statue of life is a fossil,
a shell on the wan beach sand
beside the great tides of death,
yet still it presses towards the sky.
In the end, we all fall off its side,
for none can climb to infinity.
Soon, the accomplishments of the climb
shall no longer be visible, though
they gave us ambition that has soared above us
but found no foothold that could hold it.
Only devils lurk its highest branches,
and laugh at our futile sport, their trap for us.
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Chapter 88
Fragments of a lost poem by an anonymous author
I.
As the ancient carriage drew along the dirt,
the carriage's wheels whispered rivulets of grating noise which sounded like hail,
mingled with the hoarse cry of bats from above,
and the crooked spokes clacked like skeletons across the mud.
II.
The heavy dirge of the wind and thick leaves gave ceremony
to the harsh staccato of Ghezel's skeleton in its coffin, and draped it
with that funereal harmony which eludes life itself.
The carriage that bore her to the funeral now stood bare.
III.
People make an uproar on earth about the virtues,
and moral struggles, yet, as a nation mourns, its fondest praises of virtue are poured
liberally across the fresh graves, and sainthood drenches them.
So also Ghezel, whose burial was flowered with passionate eulogy.
IV.
Fantasies and epic stories are just a pale reflection
of the reimagined life of the dead in their eulogies,
where their sins are absolved, and they are saints and heroes.
It is the curse of fabulists to always have an ear to the grave.
V.
Ghezel's ruptured body had torn easily apart
during the long, rough carriage ride to her funeral.
Were she alive, would the new pain eclipse the praise
or would she still bask in the saintliness bestowed to her?
VI.
A coffin-laden carriage departs at late afternoon
to a domain oft wished for, where all praise,
prayer and worship is found: the funeral.
Wisdom's words drift the air like soft dusk light:
if you crave unstinting praise, then die young.
Sonnet VII.
Like a trained model for paintings, you move from pose to pose,
each imbued with a pathos that an actress may envy.
Yet you still want for a painter, someone to brush
your features flat against the canvas, and plant
their imagination across your skin like varnish,
to complete the product. I would offer to
be your painter, but I know you will charge
a steep commission, and it would tax me
too much when my family has debt to pay
greedy moneylenders. Else they shall demand
my body in payment, and I as their slave!
Ah, but what if I repaid the debt, and they used
the money to pay your commission, so gaining
your body instead of mine? Then you would enjoy the fate which I had feared.
Tree of Life
The weaving of dead, grey bark
like a river unceasing
flows upwards to the canopy-
horizon of life.
This statue of life is a fossil,
a shell on the wan beach sand
beside the great tides of death,
yet still it presses towards the sky.
In the end, we all fall off its side,
for none can climb to infinity.
Soon, the accomplishments of the climb
shall no longer be visible, though
they gave us ambition that has soared above us
but found no foothold that could hold it.
Only devils lurk its highest branches,
and laugh at our futile sport, their trap for us.
Chapter 88Fragments of a lost poem by an anonymous authorI.As the ancient carriage drew along the dirt,the carriage's wheels whispered rivulets of grating noise which sounded like hail,mingled with the hoarse cry of bats from above,and the crooked spokes clacked like skeletons across the mud.II.The heavy dirge of the wind and thick leaves gave ceremonyto the harsh staccato of Ghezel's skeleton in its coffin, and draped itwith that funereal harmony which eludes life itself.The carriage that bore her to the funeral now stood bare.III.People make an uproar on earth about the virtues,and moral struggles, yet, as a nation mourns, its fondest praises of virtue are pouredliberally across the fresh graves, and sainthood drenches them.So also Ghezel, whose burial was flowered with passionate eulogy.IV.Fantasies and epic stories are just a pale reflectionof the reimagined life of the dead in their eulogies,where their sins are absolved, and they are saints and heroes.It is the curse of fabulists to always have an ear to the grave.V.Ghezel's ruptured body had torn easily apartduring the long, rough carriage ride to her funeral.Were she alive, would the new pain eclipse the praiseor would she still bask in the saintliness bestowed to her?VI.A coffin-laden carriage departs at late afternoonto a domain oft wished for, where all praise,prayer and worship is found: the funeral.Wisdom's words drift the air like soft dusk light:if you crave unstinting praise, then die young.Sonnet VII.Like a trained model for paintings, you move from pose to pose,each imbued with a pathos that an actress may envy.Yet you still want for a painter, someone to brushyour features flat against the canvas, and planttheir imagination across your skin like varnish,to complete the product. I would offer tobe your painter, but I know you will chargea steep commission, and it would tax metoo much when my family has debt to paygreedy moneylenders. Else they shall demandmy body in payment, and I as their slave!Ah, but what if I repaid the debt, and they usedthe money to pay your commission, so gainingyour body instead of mine? Then you would enjoy the fate which I had feared.Tree of LifeThe weaving of dead, grey barklike a river unceasingflows upwards to the canopy-horizon of life.This statue of life is a fossil,a shell on the wan beach sandbeside the great tides of death,yet still it presses towards the sky.In the end, we all fall off its side,for none can climb to infinity.Soon, the accomplishments of the climbshall no longer be visible, thoughthey gave us ambition that has soared above usbut found no foothold that could hold it.Only devils lurk its highest branches,and laugh at our futile sport, their trap for us.
