“What is not to be had in haste, may yet echo on the grieving wind.”
— Su ****
The pallor of the desolate plain —
a wound torn by void.
Those great swathes of barren earth,
laid bare —
are my chest,
yellowed and cracked with thirst.
She holds her head high,
nonchalant —
dragging behind her a hem
as lucid and dark as eyes
that have seen through dreams.
The snowy lace, pure as accumulated frost,
stirs up dust —
like the tender light at the horizon’s edge,
trembling into dawn.
I thought it was the sweet, silken whisper
of a love just waking,
mist-drenched and dizzying…
I wandered deep into it,
entranced,
never to return.
Her steps —
mysterious as the sea’s dense murmurs
when dusk is full.
Each footfall
layered with gentle unrest,
floated
toward the dimples of innocent laughter,
ever deeper,
until freedom itself
seemed just a breath away…
And my fevered imagination
scrambled and stumbled blindly,
thrashing with futile longing.
But oh — the great ironclad of love!
Launching its voyage!
And with cannons that shattered the sky
proclaimed:
Heaven, red with blood, is boiling!
Let the burning Utopia blaze in delight!
But her steps —
her steps are also
so firm,
so forward…
As if from the unreachable gleam ahead
some force of fate
pulls her onward,
irresistible,
unmatched.
And I —
I am helpless.
Forward…
A paltry mayfly,
daring to stop
the eternal rise of the sun
with one trembling day of life.
My proud, resounding cries
were silenced,
crushed into a choking hush,
into shattered bone…
She paid them no mind.
With unbearable grace
she brushed aside the clamor —
brushed away the storms —
and moved forward.
Her heels,
cold as the blade of an axe,
hacked into my flesh.
And the rustling of her skirt
drifted farther, farther still —
until only the groans
of withered grass remained.
The moon, pale and ravenous,
devoured every ember of warmth,
and night,
black and intimate,
caressed my spine like death’s quiet hand…
I was calm —
calmer than I have ever been,
like the pulse
of the already-dead.
In vain I turned again and again
to lick the bitterness
from every grain of this earth —
each one once soaked
in the sweet sweat of youth.
And her scent, receding,
took with it
my last ray
of sunlight.
Inspired by Su ****’s line: “What is not to be had in haste, may yet echo on the grieving wind.”This is the final music of a love that could never be held — a cry scattered in the dust, a heartbeat fading into the barren wind.To the one who walked on, and the silence she left behind
