the city of broken rhythms

My chief, my inner demon,
With him I wage a fierce, unequal race.
His whisper fills my mind like fog beyond the window,
An unseen, sly, audacious spy in hiding.
He watches every line, and brings my house to ruin;
In Chopin’s every note he lurks, amused.
He claims the city of broken rhymes as his,
And walks between the lines, afraid of none.
He tears the veils away from my soul;
In every darkened doorway – torn words’ blood.
I seek escape from imperfect rhymes’ own hell,
But my demon laughs: “You’re trapped in wretched dreams!
A netherworld of metaphors has worn your mind away!”
We intertwine in dance, with no pedestal!
Only music, pain, and evil’s birth.
I build my own strange temple from what’s left,
Where doubt’s low murmur is the base of all.
“Your meter’s dying!” my demon growled.
“Within your gift, I see a snare of lines!
Like trembling phantom, weak your rhymes appear:
You raise no Parnassus – only pain and lies!”
If your city’s built of shattered lines,
Each broken stone conceals a secret gate.
No lofty verse is needed in this world;
A filthy stream runs freely, unrestrained.
I rise, defiant, through the storm and gale,
Through whispers of doubt and sorrow’s weight.
I know that forms’ true meaning’s born in pain,
And bind myself to poetry, pure and true.
A prison forged of uneven rhymes grips tight;
I’ll build my castle out of stanzas whole.
This tormenting demon will be gone without a trace,
For wild delight will ring out at the end!
Don’t call my struggle triumph, don’t call it victory;
My fight with my soul’s dark side is not yet done.
Let it thunder, pale and frightening;
My voice grows stronger there — yet discord lingers on.
We intertwine in dance, with no pedestal!
Only music, pain, and evil’s birth.
I build my own strange temple from what’s left,
Where doubt’s echo is the base of all…

The base of all…

Идейный вдохновитель и автор: vicejova
Перевод: Ирина Хилько