By: Josephine Forch

Morose those creatures of dancers’ corpses are,
the swans whose ambiguity dissolves in parts of sand.
Whose plain pale feathers under the moonlight shine,
and ribcages unravel human,
puppets on a stage bearing skirts and faces unkind,
Whose eyes solidify to melancholic pearls
shewn on costumes whose luminous details always lie.
Their hands that bend and slither,
like trees whose trunk still shifts,
and swans around it vividly in their salubrious nature meet.
Do they own the star kissed poverty
that irretrievable beauty behind discarded?
Their song morphs into Narcisus
In the waters in which he drowned
entities of Erevos who watch the play, play out
Water lilies ringing
enveloped in a shovel,
that digs towards the tree, a willow’s roots,
defying the notes at stake.
When it hits the swans,
it will cease:
The music of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.