Concierto de Aranjuez, Solea of the Frost
“Oh somber winter…” you make another desperate, yearly attempt
to get all seams to be stitched close,
for all doors to remain shut—what wish of yours is this
that demands for no human commotion in the season of your reign,
what secrets do you hold?
I write into perpetuity, the moment shatteringly silent,
an adage for those who shall live past this season.
“It burns with flames of life—this path of ascent,
when the world comes to collapse.”
Then heard in distance is a horn quartet, violent percussion,
two voices on the brass embodying the world in distress,
brimming with angst and rage; so was the true essence of the desire of man.
These were people that came to manifest, cheat,
and win over my method of speech.
There is no recursivity in nature,
a flower blooms only once;
and who even comes to attend the first-bloomed besides?
A measly few at that, upon a seldom chance.
When perpetuity whispers and speaks of the end,
it’s odd to hear the sustaining force declare its crest,
and warn about the fall—a fool is wiser to have spent an august-aloof,
“In perpetuity, as it lasts, find a moment to declare my condition—”
All of my known manifests:
my intent to bring a thought to life, make it human and flawed,
too, as myself,
to harness desire with restraint, and veil all ache—
not to utter so much as a cry in times when the masquerade mustn’t be desecrated,
and rather kept upright.
“Don’t hold me liable for the slaughter of spring…”
That hadn’t even come to me,
I couldn’t ever, I know,
I shan’t.
I can’t afford to send you aboard the train of remorse besides,
or I wouldn’t have the chance to see you,
lest next winter shouldn’t fall.
“When do you head for the lower plains, Winter?”
I had a message for a friend,
the sole survivor of the lunatic expedition in the South.
I rarely hear from that ever since the year of the Amidst came to end.
“Does it rain much there?”
Alas, there’s barely any snow that falls in the city,
no real point of contact.