someone played the oboe, day after day
as each dusk fell he played the same sad song,
nor kindled any fire there beside the dark seashore,
where all fires die, they say / all float away.

for hours he played the oboe in the darkness by the shore,
that long and cliffless seashore where no ship ever calls;
he played it out of listlessness, or played it out of fear,
perhaps a quiet shepherd boy, or just landless king.

sadly he played his oboe, and the ether trembled deep,
beneath that halting song in a gentle minor key.
that floated sadly back to him from off the massy sea,
and all fires die there / they all float away.

Iva Bittova

Iva Bittova’s site
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