Sleep and his half-brother Death, Op. 4

I.
Sleeping side to side, Hypnos and Thanatos, in
the palaces of midnight.
The curtains of their bed the colour of pain,
the linens they lie upon the finest silk, and the
light that illuminates them, not the light of moon,
but that of morning sun. No mortal ever gazed on a
palace finer than this, nor furniture more beautifully
wrought, yet all of it... meaningless before the sons
of Nyx. His face is a sight before which nothing compares,
his appearence, dearest of all gifts; the vest of Thanatos
is adorned with images of butterflies; that of his
brother with shapeless spectres.
The curtains of blood open, Thanatos has awoken.

II.
From outside ever-lasting night's dominion, through her
open windows, the least of winds blow, carressing his long mane;
he stands before the curtains of love. His brother
still sleeps, writhing and wrangling on his bed of feathers,
meditating between his lackeys, walking in the fields
of could be. "Who is it, whose touch is sweeter than
sweetest bliss, more bitter than bitter'st of cures,
fleeter than fleetest kiss, yet alluring'st of alluring lures?"
The wind whispers, and he answers. "Who is it, whose
fiefdom encompasses all, in whose presence Few stand tall,
in whose halls all bow, who always reaps, never to sow?"
And before the curtains of lust, Hypnos has awoken.

III.
Behind where his brother stands, he now sits, on the
bed that is now his throne; where his brother looms,
he lazes, replacing Thanatos' stark austerity with a
dream of a festive. And before the red curtains, for
the daylight he declares: "Yet who is it, who ever
is present, who knows the dreams of all beings, yet whose
dreams none know? Who stands before these curtains of passion,
being both beginning and end of it?" The sons of Nyx were
they, and hear me, the least of travellers, He was sleep
and his half-brother was Death.

Sanctuary within the Citadel, Op. 3

Behold! Behind yon barred doors, within the
Citadel, the arbor to which no gates enter!
From its windows no Adonaïs perches; none to
watch its evocations prosper and in due time
wither, tended by the hand of unseen gardener!
Once shaped by man's view, wrought into being
by his hand, now all glory is gone yet prospers!
Her orchards now slain by Rosebane and Heartvine,
today their thousand blossoms will bloom! Embrace
and caress will they the statues of your lovers'
and kings', their crowns lost by the legions of
spring! In serenity her marble busts watch over
naught but illusions; its pavement weighted down
by naught but dreams and time!
Behold! Where once was played, with harps of
delight, the music of man, now only nightingales
persist and sing!

Impressions, Op. 2

I. From the moonlit bridge

That night the sky was clouded by shades of blue,
and no ray of light revealed the position of shining
stars. Moon was a violet orb seen through clouds and
reflected as a pale disc from the still waters.
Surrounded from both sides by a forest of dark towers,
the bridge cut through a silently flowing river, casting
its shadow on the images of sky. Passing waters
wordlessly glared a lone figure sitting in the middle
of the bridge, on the railing, idly hanging his head
above his audience. Slowly enough to prove his focus,
he raises his left hand from his lap, and extending his
fingers throws a pebble on the face of the moon. Seeing
the illusions break and dissolve, the works of his mind
turn and twist, falling apart. Throwing another, before
echoes none could hear dissappear; they coalesce and
come together again, this time bringing words with
them: "What shall be my next move...?"
As the ripples fade away, he is asleep.

II. After morning snow

Early that morning sunlight reveals a desert. Few
trees rise like stalagmites from the whiteness, their
trunks surrounded by shifting dunes of wisp, their
branches covered by tiny shards of frost. The silence
of night is gone, replaced by the soft wailing of winter,
carrying with it the thousand shapes of snowflakes.
He observes them; watching them fall and dance on the
whims of the puppeteer of winds. Lying in his haven,
under all his blankets, warmed by flickering flame,
he gazes outside, all but untouched by the coldest of
seasons. Seeking to distinguish singular crystals, he
hears a dove cry. To him, it brings words:
"What shall be my next move...?" He is asleep before
he finds his one and only shape.

III. In the palatial chambers

A passage cuts through the palatial chambers, shaped
like a cross, with two veins joining at its crossroads.
A dais stands on the center, and atop it, a sculpure
of a man holding a translucent sphere. Directly below
the figure, a summit, a heart of a grand mosaic or a
mandala. Dyed with most soothing hues of the spectrum,
the picture spans the whole floor, its edges blurring near
the walls only for it to transform and conquer the space
itself. She passes the room every day on her way to the
most distant room of her estates. Yet today she sees
the picture, one comissioned so long ago, the shape more
perfect than any of natures own, a city before which all
masterpieces bare. And for her, the masked Atlas seems to
whisper: "What shall be my next move..?"
That night when sleep comes to claim her, the city persists.

Duel in the moonlight, Op. 1

I.
Arbitrated by the silvery vizier of sky,
their match took place under her fair gaze,
and that of her innumerable consorts. Weary
from their travels, they were elated by the
first sight of each other; they both recognised
the bond that had brought them together. It
was a sin, of this both agreed most vehemently,
a crime unatoned for, and this ruined tor was
to be their courtroom. The expected punishment
was know to be cold and harsh, read only to
one of them; the other would leave unscathed
(but not unchanged, this was not affirmed).
Though there were no attendants and no wardens,
one could still hear a phrase uttered in the wind:
"Leave your life in the cloakroom, only past
and present may enter!"

II.
As if they were actors, who, representing
peacocks and phaesants would discard their heavy
cloaks upon entrance, they threw away their tailcoats
of black and white, of silk and velvet. The coats they
had carried were not colored thus with any
alignment, no! merely, like chess-pieces, of
colors of opposition, colors equally entitled.
Like serpents they uncoiled from hibernation of
not flesh but mind, and drew their silver edged
estocs. A match was on! and every step,
every movement from the first salute to
unsheathing of one's now scarlet dyed arm was
mindful. Dance it was! a walz of the royalty
of felines, hidden behind mask of formalities
and antagonisms, and like in every dance,
first step told the speed of movements.

III.
Under dark vizier's silver glow their blades'
embraced and kissed, emitting a crystalline
sound with their every meet. Feet dancing
a complex dance atop marble tiles that remained
of what once had been, they circled each other,
edging closer with every tap of soles.
Quick to dodge away after slightest contact, their eyes,
like empty mirrors from which naught was reflected
hinted of no weaknesses. Neither of them was inexperienced,
yet such mastery and finesse as this could only
be seen during a solitary moment, for this quality
of beauty was both fleeting and incidental...
Though by no means static, their performance
was painted as a single, vivid picture, yet one
that no brush could encapture.
Behold! under her fair gaze a delusion was played
out, and embers of night were the only overseers
for those duelers under her silver light.

IV.
There were no emotions, no pathos present.
Neither love nor hate had a place here,
and no trace of rage scarred the faces of
those two cavaliers. Yet a connection there was,
one that was established all more firmly with
every shriek of meeting brands.
Brothers they could have been, or lovers of first order,
and this dreary meet no longer a suit,
but rather an inauguration, and where once
had stood an emotionless facade now appeared
a slight smile, one that implied of an end.
It was not the final move, no, but rather like a flickering
in the horizon, a shade of what could be a lapse and
a series of intrigues that no longer could not be...
and if ever there was a reason to smile, this was it!
for the borderline between sorrow and triumph
was on that moment like a ghost: a rift that proud
and exalted could almost cross.

V.
Thus it came to be, that just as yearning
precedes loss, no amount of moves between
the first and last could stretch their distance wide enough.
No brotherhood and no love would suffice,
no silver light to wash away the color of crimson.
All and everything present seemed to feel it,
for no longer did the blades sing but cried in agony
a song of despair. In an instance a weakness was perceived,
and one leap was to be enough! Yet it was too soon,
for it was speed that was inferior to wit,
and as such rewarded... It was Cheetah that
was slain by Serpent, his fangs now the
color of his heartblood. His smile was gone,
though none could tell if it was to bloom again,
before his needle had dried of red,
and even because of that! He had felled his brother,
his lover, one he had cherished for so long...
but winner sheds no tears.