Volcha

A sliver of metal rests
in my hand…
It is a razor,
and it is a plectrum.
It has a strange and twisted quality:
It can play music,
or it can slice a vein.

A blade across
the strings,
And the strings
are just like veins!
Whoever said
they feel no pain?
That’s a lie I won’t believe!
And when the morning finally breaks,
The final breath…
Of a dying guitar…
Will be the ring…
Of a string that’s torn away…


Your road unfolds
to the horizon,
It leads you north,
To the world beyond the grave.
You don’t know for sure,
Just where you’re going.
You don’t know for sure…
But does it even matter?

A blade across the veins,
And the veins are now the strings! Whoever said that this would hurt? I don’t believe him!
And when the morning finally breaks,
The final breath…
Of this fading darkness…
Will be the ring…
Of a string
that’s ripped away…

The ring…
Of a string…
torn away…

Sleep soundly,
Volcha…