The Trill of Birth

(1) She will love that man to the last drop of her life. She’s now sure he’s the one that her soul has been longing to melt away in his laurel-crowned world. She will tell herself all of this when she goes home at the end of the day and lies on the luxury of her bed. She will think of his lips and the sadness of his eyes. She will feel his transparent soul flying lightly to color her dreams with spectral warmth that she has been seeking for some tough six thousand years.

The other man was answering her questions with a glorious dignity she would never know of with people who had experienced heartaches like his and crossed dark isthmuses of pain and anguish. He kept on looking at the one she would love to the rest of her life, as though the other man were telling him alone of what the other man had suffered and still feels of humiliation and the wretchedness of human beings at the hands of every modern and ancient Cain. “Now I’ve got these certificates. They only contain death in them,” the tone of his voice changes like an old violin. This touches her to the borders of calamity. She stretches her hand to touch a hand that he drags quietly behind the barricades of dignity. She weeps from within her insides for him while looking into the eyes of the one she would love. He was interpreting the answers of the other man with clarity that only was tinged with the changes of his vocal chords. He was also overburdened by pain that crushed his soul with sadness. She sees him controlling overwhelming tears that sink in the springs of his doldrums. Like a newborn white bird, her tender heart cries. Nonetheless, she continues to ask her questions in a sort of soothing sympathy, “but that international organization does not recognize any document issued outside this country.” She watches the two of them while the one she has commenced to love interprets her bitter-tasting sentence to the one who still has many isthmuses waiting. He speaks with the blades of pain blocking his throat. He says, ”I‘ve waited six sad moons for the documents to confirm the death of my wife and the two kids.” His voice is still flooding with pain even when he speaks the language that the man she has started to love does not understand. However, her lover comprehends the language of pain and the sadness of old sufferings. He interprets for her. ”They were crossing the Mediterranean when their boat wrecked. I’ll never see them again,” the other man said and lowered his head behind the now transparent mask of dignity only to enable her to see that he was crying tearlessly. He might have reserved the tears to bridge the swarthy isthmuses. He has waited for the documented death to torment him, after six moons of sadness. She has waited six thousand years for the dwellers of Mount Olympus to realize that they had not been superior to the mortals and that the gods are no longer capable of separating a woman and her man. Are there any incinerating questions left for her after the winter sadness has taken what it has taken from her? She’ll never ask herself such a question after she has fallen in love with the sad-eyed man. She’ll wash her sadness away in the oceans of his eyes to melt away her calamity forever. Then they’ll both dive into the springs of real glad tidings.

(2) You’re there trying your best to suppress your warm sadness only enough to melt the ice of language. You’re trying to interpret the pains of the man who is crowned with dignity you comprehend.
You’re trying your best to prevent your voice from adorning the layers of sadness over the man’s catastrophic words, “since our exodus flight, my wife has carried these tough Diasporas, filling her entire insides.” You sail into the oceans of the beautiful woman’s eyes next to you. You see the sadness in them beautiful and laurel-crowned. You will plant happiness in them fountains of warmth, love and the forthcoming joyous times. And she will tell you that the first thing she did at the moment of her birth was to open wide these two beautiful eyes, look around on every one there and then unleash the trill of birth.

In a green and beautiful evening you’ll ask her while satisfying her thirst to love, happiness and annunciations, “was it a necessity for our meeting to be delayed for six thousand years?” She’ll reply, “You’re the most beautiful of all men!”
While you interpret the man’s catastrophic sadness, he switches into a language you do not speak. He unintentionally does, you know. However, it is the incinerating calamity that makes him borrow every possible linguistic heritage. You transform yourself into two individuals to be able to bear the cross of pains; the man’s catastrophic sadness, the beautiful woman’s glorious sadness and your sadness that has ever dwelt itself between the heart and the eyes. The other man seeks refuge in the cross of language in addition to his sadness forgetting the fact that he crucifies you this way. You’re not the Savior. Nonetheless, switching back into the solidity of a language both of you, excluding the beautiful woman, speak, he answers one of her questions, “after being raped in a foreign land, my wife has significantly grown this sense of alienation. “ In the beauty of her eyes you see that the beautiful woman realizes the reasons behind the alienation of the mother of the two children, thus doing it the same way as you do. Only the other man won’t be capable of realizing it. Does calamity change a partner into an incinerating metal cross and a source of pain and sadness? Crossing a residing old isthmus the other man continues: “How ashamed and disgraced I feel!” “You’ll ever be honorable. Shame is on the ones who did that to your wife”

(3) The beautiful woman commences to sing. Her eyes dive deeply into your eyes. She was nude and lying by your side on the luxury of the big bed. She whispers the words of the song while you listen to her. She rose to sit and sing her song. You rose to sit while listening. The two of you were exploring love and rejoicing the demise of gods in the times of freedom. You now follow her into the big rooms. She still whispers like a white slaughtered bird:
“I wanna love you, and treat you right”
“I wanna love you, every day and every night”
And so on to the end of the Reggae song.

Very quietly you approach her while she is standing in front of a closet and turning her back to you. Her exceptional fingers are lazily playing there. You touch her ears and then turn her face towards you. Her tears were big and hot. You bring her face closer and taste the tears. The beautiful woman attaches her body to yours and commences wailing. She says, “This is how I solemnize you.” From her shoulders you grab her only to keep a distance to look her into the eyes. Your eyes dive deeply into hers. She is still nude across the room from your nudity. She is concealing her ever rising sadness in the ice of nudity. You then realize that the salt hasn’t been her celebration to your love and the annunciations. It is an ancient sadness that the immortals have forgotten to cleave for six thousand years that might go on for an age.

She’ll say in a new green evening, “I’m afraid my sadness will spiral with yours!” You’ll conceal something and say, “I’m the hunter of your eyes’ sadness and its exterminator!”
Nonetheless, the beautiful woman continues singing and wailing. She says between them:
“If you don’t go now, I won’t stop crying!”
“I won’t go if you don’t stop!”
She stops singing. While her tears change into sadness, you think, “How beautiful her soul is!” She whispers, “How catastrophic that man’s life is! I’ll see you there together with him!” With the beauty of her fingers she was sensing your face, lips and skinny bare chest. You go to where your cloths are and wear them. You quietly do while the river in her eyes never dries out. She stops you before you go out, “I’m afraid you’ll hate me one day.” You hold her and put your head over her shoulder. You were standing behind her. You whisper into her ear, “He who conquers the sadness off your eyes will never hate!”

You’ll go out into the middle of the street to start a new day. You’ll be a man who loves the beauty and rejoices the demise of gods starting from the god of sadness, ancient anguishes and your melancholy that will no longer reside between your heart and eyes.

“Oh Delphine! I’m your twin phoenix,” you said before you went out and before you wore the perfume that the beauty loves to smell from your body. You will see her there, an effluence of love. You were walking and contemplating the other man’s catastrophic doldrums.