Por Carlos R. Hortray.
It’s cold. As the poet walks amongst the moist, blood-laden turf, the autumn mist ensnares a sullen vista: upon a slightly elevated knoll lies a knight-at-arms, despondent by all means. He will not answer. Albeit the passiveness of the warrior, the bard comes closer to the victim. His disheartened look bestows the figure of a troubled past. The poet, distressed by the fact that both the surroundings and the wight seem to have been drained off their motion and their will to live – as his cheeks resemble the fading tint of what was once a fully-blushed rose, and birds are reluctant to singing—, finally receives the long sought soliloquy:
“In the haze of the battlefield, I was spellbound by a sweet, seducing scent that was clearly misrepresented. Afar from the death and blood that surrounded the ambience, I discovered the genesis of such enticing aroma: t’was a lady whose beauty exuded a heliotic radiance I’ve never found before. She did not belong here. It seems she had come from a far away land with the sole purpose of finding me and towing me away from the battlefield toward sanity; which she clearly did.
Keats, I could swear the lady in the meads was the child of a faery, for her determined, sincere smile resembled of creatures only found in myth, in deities, in dream. She –whose name brought life to whoever mentioned the word—was an ode to form: long blonde hair, a majestic build, whose ends featured light and refined feet and azure eyes which were ripe in life. Our gazes met: it was not a casual encounter, for I was alone and she appeared in aide. The angelical blue of her scrutinising helical orbs, reminiscent of an oasis in the middle of her pale sandy face, could not resist an instant of doubt. And so I fell. And so I thought she did.
For was she who revived the little animi I had, heading me into a new direction: abandoning my enrusted armor in the war-torn grounds, I rode into a distant land with her. In her elfin grotto we remained in gaiety; I laughed and she wept, and so, with the meeting of four star-crossed pouts the deal was closed. As my heart became enraptured towards a heavenly state of agape, my eyes precociously began to build weight upon me like the sun on a winter evening. I was asleep, yet rejoiced of the happiness just found.
In this state–the last dream I would ever dream—, I met other warriors, princes, kings and swordsmen, all who featured a common trait: though their original beauty and virtues could still be loosely deciphered, they all rendered a wilting, pale colour, reminiscent of the dead. Their starved, limpid mouths expressed, in unison: “La Belle Dame sans Merci, hath thee in thrall!”. In that instant, I discovered the woe that would follow me for eternity: as I became enamored, I yielded, not knowing I would be condemned to fulfilling the fairy’s plan.
For was I not the only one, nor the first. The testimony of princes, kings, warriors, and all sorts of men who had befallen in the same sense as I, (some even millenia before my time) confirmed my initial thought. The inhumane lady, with her charm and sweet talk, was kept alive by the always ungentle robbery of seducing men, who offered all they had, including their life, in commitment to the lady; and –as reciprocity grew stronger a possibility-, were pacedly mutilated in their prime, as the faery did not correspond and kept their life for herself, feeding her inexplicable apetite.
After such a discovery, I woke up, finding myself back in the hill, dressed in red, howling at the lonely and blue luna which overlooked the entire scene. For this is my story and the reason why I rest here, alone and silently waiting, in hope, though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, and no birds sing”
Carlos R. Hortray