The Poet and the Demon

Verra la morte e avra i tuoi occhi
(Смерть придет, и у неё твои глаза)

– Ч. Павезе

***

The night has come, a pendulum struck twelve,
The candle's out, winds are howling distant,
A lonely poet, sitting in the dark,
To find a rhyme, the only single reason,
To live and burn, to live and die again, –
As if there were yet something to be said, –
And you, my friend, behold this old tale,
And hear these words were always there to stay:

“One bitter verse, I tried to find it out,
Though night has nothing to reveal a line.
My muse is gone, and I would change this silence
For anything bring back my heart gone blind.
Though I still hear this echo of her wisdom,
But still I cannot catch her fading grace,
My words are empty, my world is my prison,
There's nothing left but cry upon my fate.
I am no poet, liar, that's my name,
And I've got nothing but the old drafts,
I’ve set ablaze her beauty and my fame
For I still flee these ghosts of the past.
I see the end, the death of mine is coming,
I hear its breath, and my life is to fade,
There is no way, no hope before I die,
I'm but a pawn of this eternal game.”

Such were the words he whispered in the night,
But heard no answer, – only screaming winds, –
When suddenly his hand began to write
These fatal words that you are now to hear:

“You called me once, I am to serve you, poet,
To grant your wish, as old stories say!
I am the Demon of these nights of lone,
Your muse is dead and you are not to blame.
For now I'll help you, but you are to pay me,
I'll bring you back your old heart and rhyme,
For this, my friend, you will become my shadow
To find the justice in this world of lie.
I have a task, and, truly, more than one, –
Three deaths demanding and you are to kill,
Don’t be afraid ‘cause their lives are their brunt!
They are but sinners: set their souls free!
They are to die, but this will be your mercy!
They'll find relief in this night of the blind,
You’ll see no saint behind this mask of poison
‘Cause you, oh poet, are a why they'll cry.”

For now this story has been long forgotten,
Though I will tell you something once I saw,
There was a girl, a pretty one, a holy, –
The Love, the Faith and never-ending Hope.
I knew her once, the kindest heart of every,
She was a marvel, unrequited dream,
Her eyes of blue with emerald in shadow,
Her only glance – and your heart is caught in.
I did love her; and no one could just help it,
As well the Poet had been charmed with her,
She’d asked for nothing but a word of sorry,
When someone murdered innocent a soul.
I cried in terror when I saw her dying,
Her scream forever stayed in my cold blood,
It was all real, and no one could deny it,
Since then and ever I swore to my God:
I would find him, he’d pay for what he’d done then
There’d be no more: no pain, no tears of mine!
I did not know that those words were to crumble:
I was the one who also was to die.

Those years had passed, a trail of dead as well as:
I followed him on every day and night,
I was the hunter, full of hate and careless,
When he himself just came to take my life.
So there we stood, in cold and in darkness, –
The Moon was silent as the heart of hers, –
I raised my gun, in tears of old madness,
And then the Poet said a few more words:
“I’m sorry, brother, but I had to do this,
I was on edge, and my life was to fade,
I had to kill them, now they are but ghosts,
And don’t you cry upon their quiet graves,
For now I’ve come – to take your soul and sorrow,
Do not be scared though, it will not be long”,
So there we stood, in darkness and in hallow
On the qui vive* to pull the trigger off.

My hands were shaking, – screams of ghosts to catch me, –
He grinned at me, and then I saw her eyes:
Her shade of beauty, fading in embracing,
To hear the words forever stayed her last.
I pulled the trigger, and I felt this bullet,
I felt the death that came to me at last,
I closed my eyes to find me falling, cruelly,
When I did hear a sound of broken glass:

I was alone, no Poet and no Demon, –

A mirror in a room which was my cell, –
My hands in blood, the gun, and distant fever
Reminding of my crime, – this cross to bear.
So I looked back to see me in this prison,

To find the Poet as my own self,

Who'd sold his soul just to become a sinner
Without rights to judge, but to be hanged.
For now I write this story for your mercy,
For you to find me and to bring the Law,
For me to pay, my tears, her death, this poem,

For lonely heart and hope

Forevermore.

31 August, 2015 – 21 July, 2017

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*on the qui vive (French) – on the alert; being ready