There’s a music box I tried to repair,
a melody playing through the red
clockwork of my heart —
There are worlds I thought
I could leave behind
that never stop sending postcards
from the past. And no matter
if the song is out of tune,
all photographs pale and torn,
they keep taking me back
to a crossroad — where everyone
has chosen the wrong path.

There are lovers broken by rules,
wedding dances stopped by wars.
There’s a woman leaving her child
for three roses on a coat of arms.
There’s a Jew tricked by a tricky star,
children gone and a mistress
crowned. Oh the trembling done
behind locked doors
leaves the equation unsolved.
I feel — suspended, I don’t know
how to grow old. Conventions
smashed like a string of pearls,
but no answer rang out, at all.

Life goes on, beautiful and strange,
I stand staring at this crossroad.
The music box turns and turns,
its love song — foreign to everyone.
Tell me, is there a flag to hold,
a desire I shall not let go —
A fire that a storm will not blow ?
Blood runs to these blue regions
of my heart, then drips unspeakably
red.

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