❧ first reverie

[histrionic]

I was never young, but he was born
A child as merry as a singing bird
That sings because it loves its song; absurd
As that once seemed to one like me, who'd sworn
To pursue strength and freedom til they'd worn
My thought and form away. Now a third
Of me remains, no more; I have no word
To speak that does not serve my goal or scorn

Someone. I wonder where the singing thrush
Has flown and where its song is sounding now?
I hear faint distant notes call out ahead.
Is it my brother? In my haste I rush
To meet him, but the music dies. I bow
my head, but I possess no tears to shed.


[[OOC: Kuja is composing sonnets in his head, because he can. And because he's dead (or believes he is), so what else does he have to do?]]

Comments

[waterfell]

How strange I stand here still, when no sound comes,
That song never trilled for me, I know
This in refrains from long ago,
In lullabies sung every night 'til some
Words sink so deep the sound becomes
A fixture, still remembered even though
The years have worn away its tune and flow
With every time, in sleep, the child succumbs.

Yet once I called it noise, and ran so fast
Away that half the notes were crushed amid
The tap of hurried boots, like fragile shells,
And so I never heard the very last
Clear chirp of that insistent voice I rid
My ears of by the crashing, clanging knell.

[histrionic]

Once in the trees of Terra black birds sang
Of sorrow and the hidden scarlet moon,
Til through the empty cities dread bells rang
To herald fire's purifying tune.

Once over fields of Gaia blue stars shone
Their pale light veiled by an uneasy mist;
Below, blood watered seeds of war long sown.
Such grains grow plants of chaff and bear no grist.

Now sounds the broken voice of earth and stone
The tortured sea, the ruined tree, the dead;
The just are lost, the cruel will not atone
They must eat ashes who have yearned for bread.

All's ended. Life and struggle come to naught
We gain only to lose what we have sought.

[waterfell]

You turn out to be a poet. I'm surprised.

[histrionic]

Are you?

I was always a poet, forced to be nothing but a tool of war.

kuja you are much cooler when not forcing her to look at unpleasant truths :|

[waterfell]

I suppose you're about to say I was always a doctor. [The thought comes through as very dismissive.]

Kuja is usually being horrible rather than cool.

[histrionic]

No, only you can say that. What you were.

That is what freedom means.

[waterfell]

I was a soldier.

[toweroflearning]

[The effect of experiencing poetry instead of reading it out of a book is striking to Reeve. The appearance of the poet only adds to the effect.]

Ah, I'm not an authority on poetry by any means, but that's-- quite lovely. Sad, yes, but lovely too.

[histrionic]

[Flattering Kuja's poetry will get you everywhere.

Well, not everywhere, but it gets you on his good side.]

Perceptive, I see. I'm pleased you enjoyed it.

[He doesn't recognize this voice.]

And who are you?

[toweroflearning]

Thank you, I'm-- [What, a spy, a kidnapper, a bureaucrat? Sometimes he feels as if all the poetry in his life has left him.] Reeve. Reeve Tuesti.

And I did enjoy it, really. Particularly the part that read
I have no word
to speak that does not serve my goal or scorn

Just spoke to me, I suppose.
Are you a poet-- I'm sorry, I haven't asked your name.