After Tschaikowsky
Hasten. The countenance of the year is hardened, the face wan, drawn — —
set by a fearful thought. The haze deceives. It is merciful.
Hasten. The days are not far off when the year will weep obliviously.
The days of oblivious weeping will come too soon, and in those days
the year will not be able to hear you above its own sobbing, its lamentation, protracted, resounding.
Hasten. The days are not far off when only memories will be left.
The days that will follow those of weeping, will shimmer with phantoms, all impassive,
wandering about by the light of a sun that will then be helpless. Come.
Hasten, if you are coming, for the long storm may burst before its time.
If you come when the long storm shall have burst upon us,
you will be too late for even a word.
If you come when the long storm shall have passed away — —
when the long storm shall have left the meadows torn and crushed — —
you will be too late for even a glance.
Hasten. The sun is already dimmed by the woes that are weaving together in the west. It is making its last appeal.
I wait. Except for the rustle of diligent squirrels, there is no sound in the ragged woods.
The birds of song have gone, forgetting, are singing their way into another warmth.
Belated crows are flapping off through the yellow hush.
The mountains are estranged, one from another, by the weaving woes of the skies.
As the days pass by, the tawn creeps over the hillsides. I wait.
Hasten. The leaves are already scrawny. Like the hands of the aged,
the leaves are spotted with brown. The veins of the leaves are coarse.
All is over with all the flowers.
They grew where they would, and they are dying.
They were sown, or were planted, and they are dying.
The clover persisted, long, but now it succumbs. It is withered.
It adds to the tawn of the countryside.
I wait. But I do not weep. I do not care.
Many are whispering of change.
Many are turning away their faces.
Many are clinging to what is left.
I wait. The sunlight, supplicative, is calling together the mountains. It entreats them to be compassionate.
At times I think you will soon return.
The pure blue darkness purges the past, and every night
the past is absolved, with the priestly approach of the pure white moon.
At times I think you will never return.
I shall wait. But I shall not weep. I shall not care.
set by a fearful thought. The haze deceives. It is merciful.
Hasten. The days are not far off when the year will weep obliviously.
The days of oblivious weeping will come too soon, and in those days
the year will not be able to hear you above its own sobbing, its lamentation, protracted, resounding.
Hasten. The days are not far off when only memories will be left.
The days that will follow those of weeping, will shimmer with phantoms, all impassive,
wandering about by the light of a sun that will then be helpless. Come.
Hasten, if you are coming, for the long storm may burst before its time.
If you come when the long storm shall have burst upon us,
you will be too late for even a word.
If you come when the long storm shall have passed away — —
when the long storm shall have left the meadows torn and crushed — —
you will be too late for even a glance.
Hasten. The sun is already dimmed by the woes that are weaving together in the west. It is making its last appeal.
I wait. Except for the rustle of diligent squirrels, there is no sound in the ragged woods.
The birds of song have gone, forgetting, are singing their way into another warmth.
Belated crows are flapping off through the yellow hush.
The mountains are estranged, one from another, by the weaving woes of the skies.
As the days pass by, the tawn creeps over the hillsides. I wait.
Hasten. The leaves are already scrawny. Like the hands of the aged,
the leaves are spotted with brown. The veins of the leaves are coarse.
All is over with all the flowers.
They grew where they would, and they are dying.
They were sown, or were planted, and they are dying.
The clover persisted, long, but now it succumbs. It is withered.
It adds to the tawn of the countryside.
I wait. But I do not weep. I do not care.
Many are whispering of change.
Many are turning away their faces.
Many are clinging to what is left.
I wait. The sunlight, supplicative, is calling together the mountains. It entreats them to be compassionate.
At times I think you will soon return.
The pure blue darkness purges the past, and every night
the past is absolved, with the priestly approach of the pure white moon.
At times I think you will never return.
I shall wait. But I shall not weep. I shall not care.
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