top of page

4) The piano and the soldier

A fine thread of silk

Wove through the rocks

The deaden debris

That obscured obscenities

Underneath....

It wove, it trembled

And flashed a hesitant twinkle

Twinkle.


There was no one

Nothing

No one to kill

Or get killed

Nothing to bring head to head

Towards mutual annilation

Just him

Just there

And the old piano.


The old piano,

His fingers, bruised,

Bruised their pearl and gold

And snapped, came pain

Notes staggered

And then lined up, like drunkards

Conscience regained

Into an edge

Into a curve

Into a weavework

And ,lo, a river flowed

And the air danced.


The silk crunched lazily

Into his rock-casted depths

Softness, defiant

A maiden braves

Trough a cemetery of

Grotesque memories

Bringing with her the radiant warmth

And fuzzy flowers shook, popped fresh

From her footsteps.


He stopped

But his heart continued

And the forest came to life

With evening lights.


- Naychi





Some time in 2018

Yangon


Comments


bottom of page