There’s something about destiny
that resembles a dentist’s work:
sterility, perseverance, carefulness,
One day, you enter the kitchen and suddenly realize
that you’ve lost forever
this smiley summer,
this milky cloudy planet,
this slim nervous woman with green eyes.
And you put on the final movement of the Moonlight Sonata,
having no faith at all in art.
You throw a lousy witch into a fire,
expecting her to spit, swear, kick her legs.
Hah! The angered melody will soar up,
emitting smoke, the smell of sackcloth,
and the fume of uncombed felty gold of the hair.
And frightened, you close yourself off,
but the music will seep in even through the shuttered windows.
Its poisonous vapor will worm its way in.
Your body will start sweating at once,
getting covered with small drops of fright,
like hot chicken meat in a clear bag.
Oh, great music,
you work wonders