November Songs 

Melancholy 

There's a window, half-open like my eyes. Outside, the desert stalks me with winter fingers that reach into my heart like daggers. Those who hold the weapons are too many. I tire of counting. 

On the other side, closer to me, there is a face. Someone whose open arms tempt my flight. Towards something unnamed.

Should I close my eyes again? Return to the sensuous dreamstate, forgive and forget until once more the wound is opened? Sip the dark wine of my own spilt blood, as if a simple vintage? Throw myself out again into the oblivion of illusion?

Your woman's hope reflects the blinding light against you. Frowning, fighting the glare. This window, my eyes, open.

I fly into the winter sun.

Solitude 

Behind the noise, behind the carnival, beyond wheels of fortune and magician's smoke, there is a small girl.

No one sees her. She is alone, almost invisible. The party crowd, disguised with half-masks and blinkers, roars with enthusiasm, drunk with power.

Someone seizes her, lifts her high, laughs and throws her up, up, into the dizzying air. And among outstretched, indifferent hands she falls, between silk gowns and capes, past a forest of legs, she falls. She is trampled underfoot as they charge forward.

She awakes with a dusty wind brushing fresh against her face, among disposable plates, broken glass, and curls of discarded streamers.

Her eyes are clear and hard. Her bruises made invisible as I am.

Rain 

The rain soaks into my soul, overflows the well of sorrow. The years do not disappear, the rain remembers.  

This is a misty city, disguised by a midday sun. Her hurricane scars hide under a green dress, her river broken under a veil of wire mesh. Her hills still ache with the weight of war, centuries of cemeteries. With the rape of violent gods. With invasion. She aches to live. 

The air is heavy with the rain's warning. For all the coloured flags they fly, there's no forgetting.