The music
tiptoes
through
the room
careful not to
wake the sleeping
photographs
of the dead
their lives
trapped behind glass
amongst vast fields
of wallpaper violets
stopping to
caress
the singular
beauty
of the rose
dreaming
in its chipped
vase
of the garden
where it was born
curtains led
by a breeze
into their dance
gazing upon the green
that unfurls
about the house
the music
wounded now
by a tear
that grown upon
her cheek
note by note
a woman staring into space
the cat asleep
upon her toes
the music retreating
back into the mahogany cabinet
curling itself
into its circle
a whirlpool of black
shellac
the music
lost in the silence
only its breathing
audible now
in the runoff
groove
the needle returning
to its proper place
with a click
the last light
stealing across
the lawn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
the music lost in silence, good write. I invite you to read my poems and comment.