Where are the nymphs, they asked?
Where’s desire?
Where’s the number that creates the shapes
That define our illusions?
I’m not the one that creates beautiful similes.
I won’t give you songs to dance to.
I won’t give you catchy phrases, rhythms of emptiness.
See, I’m not the one you’re looking for.
I’m dry and dead and destroyed.
I’m the one that owns the guitar with no strings.
I sit in the corner and watch Rome burn.
And I burn with it.
© Ernesto González, 2011
4 comments:
A stringless guitar can still make music. The purity of the acoustic lies in the body.
Where does it lie? In its hollowness?
The hollowness leaves some space for the wind.
It does.
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