The wind bites shrewdly
the wind bites shrewdly
it is very cold
and ghosts have walked about on nights like this.
still not a word of you has passed my lips.
your father rose to tell you of his fate,
and a finished tale.
will he tell us what this show meant?
i will not, not until it draws you back!
draws thee back. please, sweet ghost, come back.
and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain
to tell my story
no! – my lord?
Art there? Art here?
‘tis all i have of you – of thee – it’s all
i hold thy story hostage now, sweet prince
come haunt me, make me tell thy tale
how long will a man lie i’ the earth before he rot
treachery! seek it out –
the rest is
yes, so it is! i’ll keep it til thy ghost
rise like thy father’s, seek thy story’s telling –
doom’d for a certain term to walk the night
and for the day confined to fast in fires –
walk but one night with me, my lord, one more
horatio, thou art e’en as just a man
as e’er my conversation coped withal
one night, one last – for us, and for our tragedy,
here stooping to your clemency –
for “what my love is, proof hath made you know…”
art here, then? horatio, i am dead;
thou livest; report me and my cause aright –
as thou’rt a man, give me th-stop!
a special providence… if it be now,
’tis not to come. ’tis not to come. ’tis now:
now telling truth for you, and then – “to come”?
what then? to die? to sleep – no more;
and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache…
September 6th, 2014