THE GEORGETOWN INDEPENDENT

Georgetown University, Washington D.C.

  • White Instagram Icon

©2017 BY THE GEORGETOWN INDEPENDENT. PROUDLY CREATED WITH WIX.COM

Three Myths in Terzanelle

October 13, 2017

            I.              The Dying

 

Above, the galaxy gleams luminescent 

reflecting, cold and callous, on the sand 

now stained with blood, the future lost to present.

 

She mimics statue, head bowed, upturned hand, 

withholding sound though tears drip from her eyes 

reflecting, cold and callous, on the sand.

 

Something feels mocking in the star-filled skies 

as though their fire feasts on her despair 

withholding sound, though tears drip from her eyes

 

and spill into the dirt like useless prayer. 

The dark will fade, and light will fill the east 

as though the fire feasts on her despair

 

time yet progressing though her world has ceased. 

The planets up above still spinning on 

until they fade, and light will fill the east.

 

A bitter brilliance, a heartless dawn: 

above the galaxy gleams luminescent 

the planets up above still spinning on 

but stained with blood, the future lost to present.

 

 

             II.            The Dead

 

The moon is orange, a silent glowing stone, 

the wind below droning a danse macbre 

to shake dead trees like fingers left to bone.

 

Her throat can only make a strangled sob, 

that turns into a desperate choking scream, 

the wind below droning a danse macbre.

 

She struggles in the current of the stream, 

as waters clutch her skirt and drag her deep, 

that turns into a desperate choking scream

 

as Death whispers, “It’s not your time to sleep.” 

She screams her soul out hopeless ‘til the dawn, 

as waters clutch her skirt and drag her deep,

 

the wind sings, always mocking, “They are gone.” 

The stream shows blood again, the light is red: 

She screams her soul out hopeless ‘til the dawn,

 

grieving anew for children long since dead. 

The moon is orange, a silent glowing stone 

the stream shows blood again, the light is red, and 

shakes dead trees like fingers made of bone.

 

 

             III.             Death

 

He waits impatiently for summer’s end, 

for summer’s fruits to wither on the vine, 

for with their death, life comes to him again.

 

Their time is not unyielding like the pine, 

deciduous, and waits for change of leaf, 

for summer’s fruits to wither on the vine,

 

and die with them his loneliness and grief. 

The trees go red, then brown, and fall like Rome, 

deciduous, and wait for change of leaf

 

to make a golden path to guide her home. 

Her smile holding warmth the world has lost 

the trees go red, then brown, and fall like Rome:

 

it’s worth the price that’s paid in snow and frost. 

He holds her close as flowers go to seed 

her smile holding warmth the world has lost;

 

when spring returns, his heart begins to bleed. 

He waits impatiently for summer’s end, 

to hold her close as flowers go to seed 

for with their death, life comes to him again.

 

 

Please reload

Recent Posts

Please reload

Archive

Please reload

Tags

Please reload