Sounds that sparkle
Breaking gently over the ether
Echoes of a summer evening
The heartbeat of time
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 11Austria waited outside the bedroom door, tapping his fingers against one another. The doctor had wasted no time in arriving and beginning the examination, and yet a great deal of time had passed since the door shut. Anytime an unpleasant thought imposed itself on Austria’s mind, he replaced it with “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” Still, time wore on and his strategy was failing him. At long last, the bedroom door opened.
“Come in, please,” said the doctor. Resisting the urge to run to the bedside, Austria entered the room. Inside, Hungary lay nestled in the centre of the bed. She was resting with her arms folded behind her head and a peaceful look on her face. A serene smile graced her lips as she watched him approach.
“Thank goodness you’re alright,” Austria said.
“Better than alright,” said the doctor. “There is good news.”
“Wait, wait,” said Hungary, si
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 10In panicked heartbeats and hushed whispers, Austria and Hungary scrambled for a plan. Many rooms away, Chibitalia was still practising. Austria could not believe that this example of precocious diligence was related to that odd man waiting outside.
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Hungary said, although her voice betrayed that she suspected it wasn’t. Unexpectedly, she stumbled backward. Austria caught her just before she would have hit her head of the bust of Mozart.
“I hate that thing,” she said faintly. Austria looked at her in concern. He had never seen her look so strained.
“I’m fine, Austria,” she said. “Just a little dizzy.” As one, they looked at the door. The anachronistic stranger was probably still waiting there. Gentle, clumsy notes continued to flow from the music room. Austria gripped Hungary tighter.
“We must act now.
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 9Hungary awoke that morning to the sound of musical notes. Just the notes - not really music. The sounds were plain, clear, and orderly, yet punctuated often enough with missteps and awkward pauses. She found her slippers and wandered down the hall to investigate. As she approached the music room, she remarked how unusual it was for the door to be left wide open. Peeking inside, Hungary could not believe what she saw.
Not only was Chibitalia inside the room, but he was actually seated at the piano bench. Technically, he was seated atop a stack of books on the piano bench, but he was indeed playing. Austria stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, as he watched the young child navigate the scales. Another batch of eight notes concluded. Chibitalia looked up at Austria for approval.
“Again,” Austria said with a nod. “And this time, remember to only use the correct finger for each key.”
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 8Even in Austria’s dreams, the elusive melody taunted him. The song he had been straining to compose presented itself in the feeling of a perfect flow, and yet was discernible only in tantalizing bits and pieces. If he could only capture that song, he swore, he could hold the key to maintaining his empire’s glory. His family would need -
He had a wife, not a whole family. There were no -
Blinking awake, Austria tried to bring his world back into focus. It was pitch dark inside the bedroom. He couldn’t see a thing, so he just listened. The faintest chirping of the crickets outside. Hungary’s gentle, even breaths. And something else.
A string of strange and discordant notes drifted from the music room. Austria slipped out of bed and followed the sound. He paused outside the music room door. Sure enough, the sound was his dear piano being played by horrendously unskilled hand
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 7Working by the burning frustration within him, Austria let his fingers fly over the piano keys. It wasn’t an angry song, per se, but it was a song being carried on the fiery energy of anger. That worked just as well. Austria felt furious and dignified at the same time - a tiger, king of his lair. The very air in the music room resonated with the bleeding notes. Austria didn’t know what he was playing and he didn’t care. Intuition guided him. The song he played was fury, as primed by years and years of training.
“No one can take this from me. No one!”
His hands crashed down on a sour note, causing Austria to realize how loudly he had been playing. The child was probably in bed already - not that it mattered.
“This is my house,” Austria hissed to the ivory. “I’ll dictate the rules.” The moment he said so out loud, his fingers lost track of where to land nex
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 6Dinner was early that evening and Austria resented it. There was no excuse for interrupting his piano rehearsal. Adults could eat later than 6pm and if the child needed his food sooner, there was no sense in shifting everyone else around because of it.
“But isn’t it nicer if we all eat together as a family?” Hungary said. Chibitalia nodded in agreement and had a large bite of his beloved pasta. Austria refrained from pointing out the obvious. Hungary paused, perhaps testing if he would.
“Do you know who I saw at the market today?”
“Poland and Lithuania,” Hungary said. “I told them all about Chibitalia, and Poland said, ‘Your son sounds totally cute.’”
Austria’s hand froze halfway to his glass.
“You... told Poland that this child is our son?”
Hungary giggled and waved dismissively.
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 5In the centre of the resonating sound, Austria let his fingers run across the keys. In stressful situations such as this day’s, he generally chose a piece of considerable difficulty, so as to fully occupy his mind. This time, however, he had begun with the first etude on his piano desk stand and let the routine take over. There was probably something new from Schubert somewhere nearby, but he felt too cloudy to retrieve it. Fine. This piece would do. It was enough for him to feel the cool ivory under his fingertips and let the humming aura of the sound consume him.
With Hungary and the child preoccupied, Austria allowed himself to forget the world. Following the familiar patterns was hypnotic. It gave him a sense of pride and power knowing he could stylishly trace each song and recreate it like magic.
As his fingers spidered across the octaves, he thought he heard something rustling behind him. He looked over his shoulder and
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 4The endless pantry contained shelf after shelf of jars, Flours, grains, dried berries for sauces - Hungary could have sworn they had some egg noodles somewhere. Chibitalia had requested pasta, politely at first, but ever more adamant. He had been more than agreeable about everything else thus far, but pasta was non-negotiable. Austria had whispered to Hungary that it was a disciplinary issue. With a wave of her hand, Hungary told Austria she was happy to at least know what the youngster would eat. That would make things easier. At least, it would once she found the pasta. If they had any.
Behind her, the pantry door creaked open. Like a slinking cat, Austria stepped in and shut the door behind him.
“Have you seen the pasta?” Hungary asked, completely ignoring Austria’s expression of grave seriousness.
“Pasta is the least of our concerns.”
Hungary ignored this as well.
“How is Chibitalia doing?
Hetalia: Sweet Child Of Mine, ch 3Not far from the estate was a field of golden grains and wildflowers. It was Hungary’s favourite place, reminiscent of the vast and wild spaces she had traversed on horseback with her family an era ago. In the early morning sunlight, she ran through the field, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being anywhere but indoors. That’s when a rustling in the tall grass caught her eye.
Cautiously, she approached. The rustling occurred again. She ducked low to the ground, slowly unsheathing the knife she wore strapped to her leg. Whatever was hiding in the grasses was close enough to chase her down over a short distance, so fleeing wouldn’t be an option. She crept closer, readying herself for whatever was waiting for her.
It seemed too small to be a bear. A small wolf, maybe, although those were nocturnal. Hungary paused. The rustling had ceased. She wondered if perhaps she was not being hunted, or if that was m
we who are wearywe who were afraid of those dim evenings,
homesick for the soft rains which were
are uncertain again of
the waning stroke of the moon.
we who embrace the wicked
leave the seasons to maneuver themselves
and wind into each other,
sure of their graceful oblivion.
we who are weary descend,
following our fingers as they are rising,
the thick air before it can kill,
we who were once war personified,
warn them of our great coming.
and we shall not run,
january, the last moonbase of 2014The fatigue-factories
for the holidays,
into light, casual clouds.
It's two weeks of middling sleep,
a lucidity in calm.
I'll read Kushner and Heany,
rest like the pigeon guards
snoozing in the peaceful night
when morning, their branch-goblet
capturing the arctic infinity
of moisture above.
The moon, shining,
In This Little Microcosm
In this little microcosm
a world of patterns exist
Water and sand collide, creating intricate forms.
Some smooth and long, others tight.
Parts of the earth, stronger and fixed,
splays playground about which to caper.
Daily, at first moon's signal,
water rushes in, at times in torrent, by others, caress.
Each day's forces create their own patterns,
in deference to this fluid and complex dance.
Then, at second moon's signal,
water retreats, as sand becomes calm and nestled,
spiriting away particles to mix for return,
whilst lingering dampness absorbs.
How would water know complexity without sand's presence?
The contrast of murkiness and clarity?
How would sand refine and nourish life
without the movement of water?
And of the stone...
What would the water flow around and over?
What sensation would exist,
to define the water's dexterous nature against its solid lover?
And the stone, without water,
would never know smooth form,
nor polished finish, born of time and persistence,
nor wet reli
Wolf TrailA pair of eyes
in the darkness
of the night.
He has taken
through the forest.
in the thicket
and under cover of the trees,
he sneaks up.
He persists ...
does someone catch sight
Why has he
left his pack?
Why does he sneak
through the forests?
They tell of times
He was weak -
at that time,
too weak to hunt,
too weak to protect.
The weak are
So, he was
he has been passing alone
through the forests,
has been oberserving
has been dreaming ...
he turns away,
in the darkness
of the forest.
On the ground,
remains behind ...
by the moonlight ...
The tear of the wolf.
Life of mist / Viata din ceataEnglish:
I see the life of mist
its silentious murmur
the breath that dances
in illuminated patches
The corner of urban disconnection
It's a bird's flight
Within the life of mist
That surrounds us
Here, we are everywhere,
We sway in the mist
We are a universe,
With suns that dance
With us, fireflies,
Hyperactivity in the bones
Because we see
The life of mist
Vad viata din ceata
Suflarea ce danseaza
In bucati de lumina
Coltul deconectarii urbane
E zbor de pasari,
Transa ce mangaie
In viata cetii
Ce ne invaluie
Aici, suntem peste tot,
Ne leganam in ceata
Suntem un univers
Cu sori ce danseaza
Cu noi, licurici,
Hiperactivitate in oase
Pentru ca vedem
Viata din ceata
Paper CranesTo take to the stars
On weightless wings of gilded trees
That never fail
And never cease;
A rapid continuum of beauty,
Dusk’s rays diffusing through the firmament
Bringing cerulean licked midnight greys on crest.
Twinkling eyes to light their predestined path
Blinking only when a cloud passes by.
They shiver and twitch…
The metal hands of tinkerous man
Wrapped lovingly around their fragility.
The room is seeping with anticipation
When placed one by one on the sill.
They shiver and twitch…
Wings bend on delicate creases
Testing limitations with quick mischievous flaps
The moon casts her spell on the windowsill
Luring in the essence
Illuminating the thousand works of art
Before they rise into the expectant night
To take to the stars
below the treelinein mountain chill, immobile
beneath scattered night-blown clouds -
i see hundreds of evergreen trees
like attentive dark arrows, aiming
straining toward a full moon
they appear unified in readiness -
perhaps to pursue a place
less despoiled by... Us?
llp - dA - dec2014
There May Be Hope for Us Yet.Through candle lights and the sound of strings
I see the world evolve in all of its glories,
It remains complex and clean, pristine
It shines through ages of metal, and the mountains stand tall
Rivers of golden light
They chuckle and cluck, as the soft stones that slumber underneath
tickle their toes
The sand between my fingers
Ashes of civilizations long past
They still war with hatred as ancient as the sky
Tides of battle become sand, in time.
All of that is long gone, it seems
For humanity has taken its last steps among the soil
Mothers of sand, Fathers of ash, and Children of the dust
They all disappear in a moment
A twinkle of a distant star
An everlasting spectacular glow upon all the lands
And, to think, nature can resume...
There may be Hope for us yet.
With no one to love,
In solitude it weeps.
No happiness does it know
only does it wish for
Even the soft clouds
Become heavy with Rain
Disapproving of it
Breaking the Fall with plastic