Perhaps, now, close to better than.
Another musical poem.
Franz Schubert, a press conference.
Yes, my life was short.
Yes, I laughed, felt a light growing.
Yes, under my fingers, sparks were born.
Yes, I had little time.
I didn't know how much.
I pitied Gretchen, that youth, the unrequited.
No, the flame wasn't mute.
Yes, I ran through icy forests chased by snow, yellow stars,
and by the strangeness of style itself.
No, not the police.
I don't know if it was a devil.
There was no epoch, only the green grass, ash trees,
becalmed objects, dragonflies over pants, but no epoch.
A wooden floor, reticent chairs, reticent.
Yes, Vienna, the taste of coffee, same as now,
pigeons on the window sills.
No, I didn't foresee the spring tide of nations.
I don't know, don't remember.
This question is too personal.
No, I am not familiar with Wagner's music.
Can we communicate?
Regret, even envy.
I don't know whether it is fate, a glove.
Such a delicate snowflake if only
they don't turn into a blizzard, the green eyes of that girl.
My destiny was too big like a tent.
My heart throbbed so clumsily in those huge rooms.
Yes, talent, teeth crushing bitter coffee beans.
No, I was afraid.
I was surrounded on all sides.
The armies of mercenaries charged straight at me.
Ah, gentlemen, how could you compare me to Admiral Nelson?
No, shadows bellowed, whispers spilled like cathedral bells,
appearances barked.
Yes, I admit I was wrong sometimes.
How could I know that I was Schubert?
I was in the state of becoming, looked for a way, a color.
You can't know me, only an echo.
Yes, I was in that strait where suffering changes into song.
Yes, evergreen forests and unrequited
love, the joy of being indifferent.
Precisely, I wanted to say the happiness of expression,
halfway between life and death.
Exactly halfway.
Yes, even here the cheers of dancing people
reach us by the clot in the gelatin of memory.
Don't turn back.
Don't take the wrong direction.
But of course, you can't transform life into a lead.
It's only a very small Noah's Ark.
You know, gentlemen, not people but species, not
flowers but specimens, not fragrances
but descriptions while we ran wild in the meadow's luxury.
In weeds and in wind, in dandelions and anemones,
in the huge plural of sounds and colors,
passionate and speechless, submissive
to the demands of breathless messengers
and jubilation and sin and prayer.
Morning and evening and boredom and laughter, the eternal dance
lasted.
So many things were happening-- fear and games, cut fingers,
gaping mouths, real kisses, and kisses only
in daydreams, brace years of wheat, your glances, a veranda,
silence and nothing, the crimson of the foal.
Yes, I remember everything-- larks on long threads, puppies,
a hazel grove, the warm brick of the city,
the voices fading in the dusk and night,
a box in which children hide their treasures,
the sleep and the vigil, Venus, and the pale sky shivering
from cold.
Yes, it is even better now.
Only two lips talk to themselves in the singing.
A piano nearby in its gleaming tuxedo.
Yes, I am tired now.
And no, it's not a complaint.