The music dies and smolders
in the embers of a lost fire.
The symphony of day
ends with cooler oboe sounds,
viola and kettle drum.
The eyes close calmed by fantasy.
Heat endures only as memory,
memory of winged desire,
a moment and lost
in evening's cold and careless breeze.
The dream was real,
seagulls soared on thermal
springs of air.
The dream was a dream,
the heat the crescendo,
brass and violin
chilled by the somber moan
of the reeds.
We seek and waves of harmony break.
We pray and only silence calls.
And in the end
a cawing sound punctuates
a foolish hollow plea,
seagulls in a blue white sky,
searching unhurried,
greedy but blameless,
searching mindlessly
for the noon day meal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really like this poem. It's so interesting to me. The instruments you present are puzzling. A viola and a kettle drum...that's kind of avant garde! The words in the poem read like a jazz ditty...there's allot of free for sort of stream of consciousness to the writing, that put together makes for a well done performance poem full of imagery....And I love the opening line. Really sets the mood right up front.
The oboe, viola and kettle drum for me conjure a rumbling soothing sound, deep in base tones. I do hallucinate beatniks when I read this. This is evening setting in. That day was brass and violin and the caws of the seagulls. Glad you like it. This was written many years ago and revised around 2012 I think.