Mourning Eurydice

And when they burned her body, he was there
to throw the torch. Had to be made to stay
to rake the ashes, break the bones. His way
was always to withdraw and not to share

even with her he loved. He played his song
and made stones dance, since half the time a stone
was all his audience. He walked alone
on hills, composing. He did not belong

there, where her brothers took him, to the inn,
where bag-pipe, drums and flutes wailed for her death
the players out of tune or out of breath
and slapped his shoulders, asked him to begin

Play his lament with theirs. His lonely pride
broke down. He played three notes and then he cried.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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2 Responses to

  1. rab62 says:

    This is one of those ones that’s so sharp you don’t realize it just cut right through you. If that makes any sense? I don’t even know why I should identify with it so strongly, but it just brought tears to my eyes again on a second rereading.

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