Kourtina
Zebib K. A.
Their stage is wrapped in a shadowy cape,
red velvet.
It’s electrified with anticipation;
it quivers, twist and turns,
sweeps apart towards the sky.
There are moments when the gods’ cloth parts,
when the scene of all scenes
bursts out in a blow.
Blow song,
toot pipes.
The melody leaps and
tugs at the retreat.
A sound which holds all mystery,
chants, arias, crescendos, and decrescendos.
The audience perks up their ears
and leans in.
The child’s heart is spun.
What haven is this sound
for the last vestiges of magic?
The ear tricks us,
the rising lights trick us.
On a screen, the long-dead actors play their part.
Colorize!
Play our own music!
Behind their wide eyes and open mouths.
