by Walter William Safar
Up above, Tchaikovsky's fluting notes are dancing,
And the empty paper waits for the first verse to be born.
While the screaming wind beats against the old window,
My thoughts are endlessly straying,
Looking for lost inspiration,
And they stray the ravines of my mind,
Like lost children searching for their dear mother,
The heart is painfully echoing in a mute chest,
And the paper still waits for its dear tennants,
And it is as if the angry wind knows it too,
The wind that shakes the old window blinds
That painfully creak
Like the bones of an old dying man.
If I could,
I would sprinkle all roads with stars,
I would gild each stone with the rays of the sun,
If only inspiration could find its way to my home.
But how could I possibly greet it royally
In a room full of moisture, draft and smoke,
And the deafening echo of poverty,
As inspiration is royal by birth, after all.
There is grave silence down there,
And a magic harmony up there,
It is Tchaikovsky dispersing his magic notes
Down into my dark home,
As if he wants to provide a royal welcome for inspiration.
That blue shadow is watching me now,
As if saying:
"Inspiration is of royal birth,
You will find it in the dark, below a stone,
In the company of the darkest shadow,
At the very heart of loneliness;
You don't have to take the stars down from the sky for it,
Or bait it with gold
So it would find its home.
Giving in to your heart is enough, brother,
And inspiration shall find its home!..."
Last updated May 11, 2012