The stillborn moon, born of mother earth, sired by the sun, a blemished perfection, a gyrating mausoleum, its foundations, a lethargic magnetism.
An old man winds back time, her image from long ago at his shoulder, reflects upon her charcoal lips, the echo of their days of carefree forbidden delights, all the time hearing the noxious resonance of a requiem, a towheaded choir of fallen angels in the chancel of his sceptic mind.
The very thought of her sets his heart on fire still, yet he pays the highest price, for long since she is nought but a less than precise scorched memory of the times before the Swastika’s greedy march, of the days before the Fall of Paris and of the instant they took her away.
He bows his head, smiles the comforting hidden smile of world weary tender remembrance. As with the stillborn moon, she is also a blemished perfection. As with the stillborn moon, she endures.
Of blithesome preference, he shuts his eyes one last time.
‘J’attendrai’ (I Will Wait) sung by Rina Ketty (1938). A piece of music popular during the days of the occupation of Paris.
(the thought provoking photograph above was taken in Paris during the occupation and was kindly forwarded to me by a most accomplished young lady writer to whom I offer my sincere thanks)