How do we hear the heroic horns trumpeting as the storm rages,
And not hear the wise raven in its aftermath?
The hero is but a blinding burst of flame, vanishing toward the sky,
look neither to the sky nor to the ground then!
To hear those cannons firing as the lust throttles the heart,
The drumming of approaching darkness,
The grand overture of Time,
And the melody of stillness passes through us.
The darkness of winter merely redirects the light,
Reflecting it into oneself, into the unknown.
We walk into the sun and hear the cymbals crashing!
But into the gloom, we struggle to hear the pianist’s serenade.
What joyous bellows, cheers, rhapsodic and rapturous songs,
Left unconsummated by the silent hunter.