In my world,






my world, a world of beauty and strength,



we have a gift.






It is precious,






a gift of music, how our souls bear,




it’s perception.














I have seen worlds,





and ‘tongues’ for ‘words’.













But it is said,






that before a child’s eyelashes open,



a song is sung.






The Goddesses






Ritornelle and Melody breathe their



soul into soul.








My mother’s,






Teardrops, wide, perfectly shaped, streamed down her

faerylike face.






Her Violin,
caressed, transposed from dull brown wood to


translucent, turquoise ice.













It wept with
my mother, melting in the new dawn
of the new day.
The strings wailed,
a pitiful sigh. Her bow sang
a cantillate.

Her body swayed,
side to side, with ballerina pointe,
her back arched,
with rising pitch and intensity.
She shuddered,
And slouched in diminuendo.

Her violin,
a pool of cool water at her feet
and she sank
to her knees, her golden hair swimming,
in the fragments.

She whirled her hands,
the water gliding and changing,
into an ‘s’
of red metal and violin bow.










She played it,
differently this time. Short staccato,
accented
notes, and the clashing
of violin chords,
the shrill shout,
of defiance and
untold rage,
her trills faster,
and faster,
her eyes radiated
outrage and hatred.
She screeched an
animalistic and guttural sound,
and the earth
growled in its response,
as she threw her violin to the floor,
and watched it smash,
into an abundance
of tiny red metal pieces.


You see,
the goddesses had never
given a chance to me
to start or whisper goodbye.

And as I float among the stars,
I wish for her,
my mother,
to recognize







my nighttime's lullaby.