Do You Know Why I Can Write?
As I think of MM*, am I eloquent. I could talk, write
endlessly, welling up as a spring to overflowing. I could tell her, show all
the good and all the bad I have, I am, see my inside out.
I could imagine her as real, as warm, as precious, as alive
beside me. What do I care of a famous Mona Lisa on canvass, or a cold beautiful
statue of marble, or as empty air as fairies, angels are.
Or as a grand piano, just touching her keys and she repays
me, gives me back, returns – were it her soul? -, more touching, richer than I
ever could imagine, though with my poor ability of playing the piano. And I
picture a big scoundrel proudly, unashamed, soiling, hammering on her pure,
white keys with his dirty fingers. What a disgrace, affront.
Otherwise, I can’t write, then I have nothing to say,
nothing to tell, am I dumb.
What a joy, delight it is to write, talk to her. I dedicate
my thoughts to MM, Mein schonster Stern, My little star, My dear little fool.
*Maria Magdalene
March 2013
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