EN
The sound of the harp fills the air
and the sweet music echoes in the silence.
No one is here,
only the wind plays with the coiled metal
stretched between the instrument’s frame.
Who set it ringing?
And what is the source of this sound,
who sets the rhythm?
and how is it that it suddenly falls silent?
“I am here, your muse.”
And whose gaze is that in the darkness
and to whom is it directed
and why is it so piercing?
“Close your eyes
and nothing will remain of it,
but a memory.”
Silence, tense
between two people
is suddenly broken by the sound of an oboe,
a sound both very warm
and heart-wrenching at the same time.
That gaze has vanished;
even though I don’t perceive it physically,
I know it is fading.
Oboe, flute, violin, timpani,
everything merges
into one powerful chaotic cluster!
Oh please, enough, enough
please, stop! —
I perceive nothing further…
How I long for silence,
perhaps tense, but silence.
For a space without music,
without mood, without emotion.
But it’s impossible.
My heart would have to be made of stone.
And somehow, it isn’t.
It’s just equipped with a lock.
A lock so powerful
and I don’t have the key.
My key is there.
Out there.
Ready for you, my dear.
So take it,
or leave it…
