Quasi Una Fantasia

(I wrote this while listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, hence the title. My first attempt at the villanelle form of poetry.)

 

When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream,

Wakefulness I drown in reverie’s waters, let me float on this lost stream,

It almost is true, this world I see, almost a fantasy.

 

Beauty like a cliff’s edge, to stand and peer or to plunge into its teasing, tempting abyss?

In an endless pursuit of fleeting moments, in a vain grab at a passing moonbeam,

When sleeping eyes open but are not awake, and rove as if in a living dream.

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A Thought Coloured Red

Seed of a disease, the fever of my mind walked in disguise as the banal,

A thought not like poetry, a thought like the yielding rain fattened ground.

The ignored soil silently sighed; everyone came to see only the roses’ merry carnival,

Imprints of feet remained but no odes, no paeans in volumes leather bound.

 

Plain, this ordinary thought, never to smirk in beauty’s smugness, plain, this hobnailed donkey,

Unsung and despised, the stoic beast trudged in tired servitude.

Not Stubbs nor Husain captured the brute, for Caesar rode only horses,

Meekly it walked in the shadows of mountains, never to claim its beatitude.

 

Black this thought, perched beside a murder of red carrion crows,

Its whispers just as ominous as their beady eyes, fanned by wings of fury,

Obscured by the peacock’s parade the neglected raven gathers its forces in burgeoning rows,

Unrest slices through the nation’s stomach in a corridor of blood, change must here arrive in a hurry.

 

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