Tune of the dead:
There it stood, holding a femur and a
tibia in an odd position, yet still with grace and poise; a position commonly
seen in violinist. Robed from skull to phalanges, dark as the ever-present
nothingness of eternity; one piece of rope to hold whatever cloth and structure
it could manage. Balancing what could be considered a body in an awkward posture
as it revelled with its makeshift fiddle; tilting its head sideways as the
impossible notes appear to be made from the grazing of the bones. Although no
facial expressions were seen, it was clear as day that remorse was not one of them,
nor was joy, melancholy perhaps.
One body, two bodies, three bodies,
four. The essence of decay and spirituality, mind, and soul, separating into
what is understood as death. Motionless, speechless, blinded, deaf, and
tasteless. Five bodies, six bodies, seven bodies more. Unceremonious and ugly
laid the corpses, peering into the past before it ventures into the afterlife.
The scent of the intoxicating rum, the sweet aroma of mead, the bitterness of wine,
the smouldering vapours of whiskey, the effervescence of beer. Glass cups
scattered in tables and on the floor without the hope of ever getting back
together as one. The faint scent of tobacco smoke drifting aimlessly, unable to
find a host to irritate.
Death looming and counting as the
manufactured Devil’s instrument gave a symphony to the departed. A slight
dissonance in acoustic reverberations, but no one was the wiser to argue. Diabolus
in musica and its respective notes demanding to reach someone, waiting for
an ear to be lent. Not evil, but the end in progress.
“Que les feuilles tombent et que
les âmes se reposent pendant que je danse avec le macabre. Que le
temps progresse et que les fleurs s'épanouissent, car nous devons embrasser la
mort.”