Like pouring sand through fingers, like holding the dripping wax from a burning candle, to catch the falling light of the sun, or the steaming and priceless nectar, it is a fruitless task.
But yet I try, every day, to see if I can see again my dying sight.
Travel through the desert a thousand miles or more, get youself completely lost. If you are lucky, just when your knees give out, and you are ready to fall to the ground, you'll find the stairs that take you to the temple of to the lords and ladies of the sand.
They will greet you with easy smiles, no matter your dark background, a mild, honeyed welcome.
But if you are lucky, really, really lucky, they'll let you into one of their secrets.
A ligh melody will play, dauntingly sweet, dauntingly evanescent. A wasted, permanent secret you might say to them. Why do the play it to me? you say to yourself
Not only as it is being heard by a seedy, worthless chump. But, what is the purpose to make you, by ear, learn the layout of their angelic voice? If you are likely then, to forget it rhyming lull?
And in the time that you wonder, yet again it raises the song, refusing to be ignored.
The whacking, tacking tones, the gyrating harmonies, in all their holden power, splay full.
They are, like cat's eyes, all those notes arranged together.
They string you by the neck, hold on to your bones, with their sandstone lbeing like heels to your throat.
And up it seizes, that full woman that inhabits the music box, that powerful being that lures your treble soul.
"I am timeless," the symphony decries.
"She is without essence," the bass orchestra claims.
That lady of the desert, that mystery, contradiction, insane dichotomy, all that she is. A muse of dangling, impossible clangour, the edge to edge of life and death.
She is the manic, crazy moment of panick that you felt. The song of the vanishing, vanished sun—of the colding weather and the parched, and burnt tongue.
That lady is the exiled's psychopomp, and I am a lowly thief. One who will die on her haunting, graveyard tune.