Chapter 88


    <strong>Fragments of a lost poem by an anonymous author</strong>


    <strong>I.</strong>


    As the ancient carriage drew along the dirt,


    the carriage''s wheels whispered rivulets of grating noise which sounded like hail,


    mingled with the hoarse cry of bats from above,


    and the crooked spokes cked like skeletons across the mud.


    <strong>II.</strong>


    The heavy dirge of the wind and thick leaves gave ceremony


    to the harsh stato of Ghezel''s skeleton in its coffin, and draped it


    with that funereal harmony which eludes life itself.


    The carriage that bore her to the funeral now stood bare.


    <strong>III.</strong>


    People make an uproar on earth about the virtues,


    and moral struggles, yet, as a nation mourns, its fondest praises of virtue are poured


    liberally across the fresh graves, and sainthood drenches them.


    So also Ghezel, whose burial was flowered with passionate eulogy.


    <strong>IV.</strong>


    Fantasies and epic stories are just a pale reflection


    of the reimagined life of the dead in their eulogies,


    where their sins are absolved, and they are saints and heroes.


    It is the curse of fabulists to always have an ear to the grave.


    <strong>V.</strong>


    Ghezel''s ruptured body had torn easily apart


    during the long, rough carriage ride to her funeral.


    Were she alive, would the new pain eclipse the praise


    or would she still bask in the saintliness bestowed to her?


    <strong>VI.</strong>


    A coffinden carriage departs atte afternoon


    to a domain oft wished for, where all praise,


    prayer and worship is found: the funeral.


    Wisdom''s words drift the air like soft dusk light:


    if you crave unstinting praise, then die young.


    <strong>Sos and other Poems by Efrem C. K. R. Esyu, in trantion.</strong>


    (<strong>Trantor''s Note:</strong> ording to most extant copies, these sos were typically apanied by a curt dedication to Lady Ghezel Esyu. The writing of sos was a popr aristocratic and courtly pastime at the time of Efrem Esyu. The sos of that time were known for ending on a rhyming couplet with a longst line that summarises the ''argument'' of the piece. Efrem satirises this in his first so. The rhyme scheme of the original poetry is not preserved in this trantion, as it would be difficult to reproduce while preserving fidelity to the text. From the numbering of the sos, it seems that not all have been preserved.)


    <strong>So I.</strong>


    Your fair skin does not contend with your virtue,


    nor with your honesty, though some may contend it so,


    rather, only your fairness holds your virtues'' splendour in tow,


    that though it overawes, it modestly will not subdue


    our hearts and conjure malfeasant visions of


    further virtues and merits which you do not truly have.


    Let jesters mock, and say that your beauty masks your


    with temperance, lead the heart to vice? But, they say busily,


    it is the talk of the town, you have made yourself


    amodity, passed around among men as in a flesh market.


    Be it even so, what is the virtue of amodity?


    Its use. If many have use of your skin, then this is in


    agreement with your virtue. Thus, my argument is correct notwithstanding.


    <strong>So III.</strong>


    A feeling is nted within the heart,


    and it bleeds out when stimted,


    so also love, though in court we are taught


    its manners and ways, did not break


    out truly until liberated by your gaze,


    which pierced like a horn through the heart,


    and covered the earth with blood. I thought


    then, I must have my revenge, and prayed


    that one day I should find you and do the same.


    But when my horn pierced you, foolishly I


    found that you did not bleed, for your blood


    had already been spilled by another, and my


    foolish quest for vengeance was never necessary.


    In this way we find that love solves problems long before our striving.


    <strong>So VII.</strong>


    Like a trained model for paintings, you move from pose to pose,


    each imbued with a pathos that an actress may envy.


    Yet you still want for a painter, someone to brush


    your features t against the canvas, and nt


    their imagination across your skin like varnish,


    toplete the product. I would offer to


    be your painter, but I know you will charge


    a steepmission, and it would tax me


    too much when my family has debt to pay


    greedy moneylenders. Else they shall demand


    my body in payment, and I as their ve!


    Ah, but what if I repaid the debt, and they used


    the money to pay yourmission, so gaining


    your body instead of mine? Then you would enjoy the fate which I had feared.


    <strong>Tree of Life</strong>


    The weaving of dead, grey bark


    like a river unceasing


    flows upwards to the canopy-


    horizon of life.


    This statue of life is a fossil,


    a shell on the wan beach sand


    beside the great tides of death,


    yet still it presses towards the sky.


    In the end, we all fall off its side,


    for none can climb to infinity.


    Soon, the aplishments of the climb


    shall no longer be visible, though


    they gave us ambition that has soared above us


    but found no foothold that could hold it.


    Only devils lurk its highest branches,


    andugh at our futile sport, their trap for us.