[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]
Deep in the cold, silent snow-dropping night
when reason gives way to a dreamy wonder;
when it has no reason to be, to exist,
I hear your angelic music. I don’t know
where it comes from. I don’t need to know.
I just need to listen and to feel the feelings it stirs,
feelings I have never felt and how strange is that?
If I listen with my heart, surely it will tell me
what the music is all about. Will it not?
What it has to say? If indeed it is for me;
played for me? Such a selfish, unworthy thought:
for me? Why? Since when is such ethereal music
played for fools awake in the middle of the night?
Fools who will not let themselves slip into sleep
for fear of dreams and portents of doom?
Yet your music plays on, sadly, wistfully seductive
and I have to listen with my heart; to feel, to feel
what the music interprets; what it is saying
to the night; into the night. Into my mind and brain.
I want to kneel down and pray though we both know
I never pray. I find no solace or gain in it.
Perhaps there is a good reason, perhaps it’s but pride:
I don’t even know. Not while your music is playing.
I want to stand and dance a wild dance, someplace,
where a full moon shines upon a glistening sandy shore
and I can hear small waves wash and die upon that shore
and smell their sea-grown treasures as they’re spilled
upon the sands, a free-will offering to the morning sun.
But I don’t dance either. I just don’t. Too flaunty
I told myself long ago. Call it reverse pride, or:
there was a lot of religion back there, self-denial.
But I listen to your music. There’s mystery in it.
Like me, and I am your instrument, aren’t I? You,
you play me so well, and who else makes me smile
like this, foolishly? You are an accomplished harpist!
You give me such tantalizing vibrations, I could
collapse at your feet now, and die so happily… If
I wasn’t your instrument; if I did not belong to you.
If I were free. But you know I don’t want to be free,
not from you, not from this ecstasy you give me.