Tuesday, November 23, 2004 By Maryam
This is myself, he said, I am a lute.
Her hands caressed with trembling fingers the cords that agonized.
Slowly, some aerial petals of sounds came from the inside and sounded upwards,
"This is my song", he said,
"the song of my last moment in her hands.
Yet she doesn't know that I am going to die."
Die... for what? What reason can you have to die
when you are in such caring hands...?
"Die... to live at last, because she gave me what I need;
she gave me breath, and gave me love;
she gave me a poem through her hands.
Die... because I live imprisoned inside this cage...
Die... because this is what I have always desired in truth."
Die..., because you are unhappy? Die..., because life is not the truth?
"Oh my child... when a song becomes perfection,
and perfection brings up angels,
and angels whisper words
that only a song can understand...
I realize the moment came, and that I am not yet ready for it,
or I am and I don't know it,
or knowing it, I am not.
Her hands are the wind embracing my soul;
her fingers what push me away from myself.
She is the bird that tells me there is freedom;
my song is not mine then: but it's hers."
She stopped for a moment. The cords didn't give a single sound.
She tried again and again, and surprised, looked into the silent lute.
Only wood was in her hands. The soul had gone.
The prison was destroyed.
And freedom took its path.