Zann

No map can find the Rue d’Auseil,
No street returns, no stones prevail,
Dark river stank beneath the sun,
Steep houses leaned like they would run,
Above my room, each night began
The music of Erich Zann.

Play, old man, play.
The shutter knows.
The black glass hears below.

Viol scream, keep back the night,
Bow through bone till wrong sounds right,
If that window opens wide,
There is no world outside.

He was dumb, bent, blue-eyed, thin,
Satyr-faced with terror in,
He wrote in haste, his papers flew,
The window shook, the night-wind blew,
One far note mocked from the west,
And tore the music from his chest.

Play, old man, play.
The shutter knows.
The black glass hears below.

Viol scream, keep back the night,
Bow through bone till wrong sounds right,
If that window opens wide,
There is no world outside.

No city lights. No moonlit street.
Only space where black things meet.
Illimitable, alive with sound,
Chaos breathing all around.

His face was cold.
His eyes were glass.
His dead hands played.
I ran at last.

Viol scream, keep back the night,
Bow through bone till wrong sounds right,
If that window opens wide,
There is no world outside.

No map can find it.
No door remains.
Only the music.
Only the name