the legend of autumn vampire

8/13/2019 The Legend of Autumn Vampire

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Villard Cord, 2010/2012

I

There was autumn. Of those that savours of pavements and tobacco smog. Though different

was the time: people wore gowns and elegant suits, their roads went in cabs, and only the silence of

secrecy inks kept their heart testimonies.

Gloomy London had used to the needling rains long ago. Addict against his own will, he

laughed at reflections of streets in the autumnal puddles. Here and there: in a bakery and grocery

store, jewelry and antique, and, of course, in a pubpeople swallowed dreary whiskies, complaining

that rain todays pouring more cats than before. And London high sinewy old man in an old-

fashioned jacketsullenly nodded, fetching them a new pint of weary hops.

That autumn rains poured cats and dogs, indeed. The city turned deserted. Balls ran one after

another (to let the rain-mood off), but the fund die with umbrellas curve. Those days people

rumoured a ghost: haunting eventide alleys and parks, dancing with lanterns to the music of cloudy

skies. Someone saw him sailing by Thames in a maple leaf boat; some closed tight the curtains, being

afraid of his look, chanting grey; some even - faltering - told that theydmet him, but then couldn't

remind any words, just the music of splashes, composing the ghost, and his colourless eyes - full of

rain.

In those days there appeared a man, whod come oft in a pub not afar from the forsaken garden,

adjoining the decrepit chapel. He didntwear any hats or umbrellas; his coat was thrown open, and he

always preferred to look down, avoiding the curious sights. Hed order rum or whisky and sit for

hours near the window, listening to rain drumming on the wan lone glass. It seemed his coming ever

brought the wind and dampness: thenpeopled move to the fireplace, reaching for warmth;but hed

still take place right at the door and breathe in the fragrance of weather. Bartenderd shrug his

shoulders then: judging by accent, strange guest was Irish, and all Irish for him sounded far from

this world.

When the guestd leave, people sighed of relief, as theyd do if rain, burst under the roof, again

is returned in embraces of winds and lamenting pavements.

No one knew him by name, but those who met called him Rain: he was so much alike to the

wet English autumn

Rum, please

Black?

The usual

Bartender nodded and reached for the ice.


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II

That day, while the park promenades, he heard cries.

She was there, sitting on the bench: trembling, sobbing, burying face with hands. And,

generally, hed pass by being hostile to people but something caught his eye, made him come

closer and sit beside her. Watching her from under the soggy eyelashes he tried to find out, whats

wrong with the girl, while she cried on her bitterness, as if never noticed his coming.

You are like autumn that beauty and sad

She was startled with his words, but, looking at him through the hazes of tearful eyes, sadly

uttered:

Go away. I dont need any pity.

But You are the beauty. You can make the rain

Girl bitterly smiled to a thought that she bumped into moonerthen reached for a handkerchief

to wipe off the tears; but he took her hand gently, and his rainy eyes imbued with pray

Please, dont

What kind of gentleman are you, letting out your hands But she wouldnt finish, as

stranger came kissing her cheeks and lips, licking off salty nectar of her tears.

Oddly, she wouldnt resist, like being charmed by his sudden endeavour. In an eventide park

under cover of rains she felt panting inside and, unable to hold back the passion, instinctively yielded,

surprised, to his sudden caress.

Who are you?

I heard someone calling me Rain

I love it Rain

I will be calling you Fall.

Rain and Fall

Fall and Rain

After park, they had long promenades by the quays, andFallhappily cried, as Rainkissed off

her tears, and she felt that his cold eyes came warmer.

Later he got her on cab and then watched, in the middle of watery road, how she vanishedhis

Fallin the mysterious shade.


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Her rain is another. Salty, knocking off feet, drugging with a peculiar fragrance. I could go

kissing her on and on, drink her delicate nectar... disparate with rain, which had become my

shadowAnd now whenshes gone, I am boiling within. My obsessionoh, maddening Fall!

That night he didntgo to pub, wishing for the taste ofFallto last for ever.

But with the morn, of sudden, clouds scattered, and the rain-drops dried. People ran out into the

streets, smiling at the blazing sun. Only he alone in damp grotto by swampy swan-pool, tried to

sleep, until sun would extinguish. Though the feeling inside wouldntlet any rest as rough opium

of human tears set his hunger on fire


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III

Names do not mean much in this story. This is why you will never know the name of the girl he

calledFallor, like, mine. Doesnt matter at all. And even if mightwill just hinder from considerate

reading.

That girl, as you couldve guessed already, had befallen disgrace. Which led her in rainy

autumnal park, where she found a hope that happiness still could be happened. Where she met a

vampire, summoned with the call of her tears

Like a newborn, she greeted the sun, which had torn through the bulwarks of sorrowful

weather, hoping that this is another good sign for the end of all dismal and dreary, and cold of her

life being. The whole day she could just dream away in their promenades with Rain, waiting for the

evening, when they promised to meet again; and she bantered herself, smiling: Above all, there

should be no rainAnd before going out, whispered, wagging at mirror: Hence, no mo tears, hear

me! No more tears!

But there happened more tears. He didnt come. Passersby watched her with pity, as she cried

on the bench. One even tried to address her with sympathy, but she wouldnt hear or see anyone,

craving for theRainto come, cherishing the hope, which hurtand heavier poured ringing tears.

He lied in agony on the heartless stones of world-forsaken grotto, unable to break his refuge.

Parks and alleys dried out; calmed down the winds. Clear sky promised not any clouds, thus he knew

that he couldnt abandon his ghostly place hence pierced on and on skin with claws, eager to

silence the echoes of cries of hisfairFall, whose tearsmust appertained to him wasted dead in

the rustling leaves, withered. His drug rough opium of rain, salt morphia did call, allured, but

when he tried to get out of the grotto, dry wrinkled London injected his soul with the summery

liquids, burning, choking his throat, as willing to squeeze out his life. Then vampire crawled back in

his prison, where faint underground brook from the swans poolkept feeding his rain-coat shade.

He loved to watch how black swans in the greyness of rain sailed like ancient barks ripping

storms by the flow of autumn, raising flags from their sable feathers, hailing himthe sea captain of

morion smokes. They were so alike: black swans and coated in clouds autumn vampire. Just like him,

they enjoyed when it rained and would hastily hide when it shined in decrepit chapel, long forgotten

by men. There he built artificial pond, filled with water from mourning heaven; there loved to spend

hours himself, listening to the wandering wind howling through the time-worn walls. Though in


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shine days still brightly was there. He felt sun stretching out his hands everywhere, spitting dryness,

so then would escape to his grotto: dark and thick, solid as coffin, accustomed to creatures like him,

though hungry for blood.

He wouldnt tell what isSeasonsor Calendar. He lived with special understanding ofhis ownSeasons. When it rainedthe autumn reigned over his world. And thus, hed lust to last for ever. But

then, alas, at sudden, summerd come. Skiesd dry, rainsd die, flesh-eating sund crawl out, and

people many people. The world around would turn into a dreadful orgy of voices and sounds. In

those days even there, in his forsaken garden, he could hear the steps. Once happened: some kids

tried to enter his refuge, but he frightened them, playing a ghost, spreading rumble and moans all

over the grottoand they ran away. He grieved that summer couldnt be frightened, as well.

But mostly he feared of winter. Shuddered at every crunch of snow under passersby legs;

shivered in his light coat; and worriedly watched the underground brook being shrouded with thin icy

scales. Then he smashed it, ground with stones into ashes, protecting his faint spring from horrifying

wintery breath.

At summer he was frightened to dry; at winterto freeze. Only at autumn, when poured are the

rains, he would have promenades, filling London again with the rumours of ghost, dancing midst

puddles, swallowing cloudy tears.

And now, unexpectedly he realized that his life kaleidoscope had beheld the new season. But

he wouldntknow how to describe it, though felt its connected to her, whose cries he could hear

from afar, as they drove him crazy. But the rain was numb, thus autumn vampire had to suffer the

pains of his heartbeat.

She waited for him till the sunset, but Raind idnt come. Tears dried, killed the hope, and she

couldnt decide, whatd be next. Like she couldnt before, when she thought, no one else everd make

her heart aching. She got a cab back home. There, in boudoir before the mirror, gulping chartreuse,

she feebly whispered, peering into the bleeding aureoles of ink: No more tears any tears never.

That night it rained again. Though she slept blue of emerald liquor: couldnt hear the splashes

of sorrowful fairies at the closed-shut windowpane.

A handkerchief. Only a handkerchief on the lonesome bench in the nightly grim park all

whats left from her. He picked it up carefully, holding to lips: licked soft fabric, imaging kissing off

her rainy tears, tasting her passionate watery nectar, and, couldnt be patient for more (full of violent


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illness) drank off ferociously draining silk fabric on the tips of his pale, hungry, dried off pain-lips

her decadent autumn melancholy. Thats when he felt again the ecstasy within, as if he partook of

forbidden fruit, dissolved in space, moored after countless seasons of mooning to the island,

where infinite rains have poured lotus haze in crystal goblets. He closed his eyes and could see her beauteous Fall gowned in fallen leaves, granting him one of the goblets. Like true sommelier,

tenderly and slowly, he accepted the gift, smelling the aroma, further making a sip, letting flow by

the tongue the thick rivulet of viscid temptation.

Here is the special wine. Pleurs dAffe1. Which grows in eventide falls from the rarest

overcast tears. Which bouquet smells of maple leaves, seasoned in puddles in drowsy sparkles of the

last lanterns breath hurried, floundering glow of dark-roasted tobacco and ashes from beheaded

match subtle blossom of my favored perfume, spread with camellias petals by the dank winds,

blended into the sweetish sativa of misty October. Which taste firstly is salty, weepy, wed with rough

and spiced tempranillo, opening further in bitterish duo of opium dusk and scorched almond-heart,

with a colouful finish of astringent conifer tar, melted in sighs of ailing kisses. Pleurs dAffe. Are you

enjoying my treat?

Oh, aye

Then drink more Drain me

And he drankdrained every single drop from the handkerchief; fallen on his knees, craving

for more, obsessed with the hungering madness. Nor rain, neither perpetual autumn but desire to

stay on that island forever possessed him. There, in crystal goblets, Shewas pouring the colourless

winePleurs dAffewhich reflected cold vagueness of his eyes, stranger to the world of men and

flesh temptations.

1Pleurs Affe (composed from French: Pleurs= rain, tears ; EaudAffe= li quor, spirit).


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IV

He looked for her anywhere, but couldnt hear the music of tears . Night seemed eternal. He

searched for her beyond the windows, but met just his own reflection on the curtained glass. Mooned

around the quays, yet rain scared away anyone but stray dogs. The goblet in his hands got a crack,

and he smashed it in ire at mourning pavements. Then the following scream grown in gust, clanking

lids of the dustbins, fracturing branches, tearing fences away from the shadows of sorrowful lamps.

Exhausted, desperate, the autumn vampire didnt notice his entering the pub, where got habit of

ordering the taste for his rainy obsessions. Coming closer to counter he first time in his liferose

eyes and looked straight at the bartender, tall and sinewy old man dressed in old-fashioned jacket.

Amused, he realized the sudden desire to look. But that new sensation felt more like the animal

instinct, as if something was telling him to search, to analyze, to feed on anything that hadnt been of

interest before.

Your eyes, sir. Do they shed?

Nay this is just the colour

Of the eyes?

Rainy, colourless.

I remember, last time they were dark.

So, do you? Thats just rum. Rum makes darken...

I say, from that few drops?

Ayejust, give me wine

Any special?

Something spicy and salty

I may stir up tempranillo with merlot but, afraid, this will bite badly. Cant help with anything

better, alas.

Badly or notI dont care. Need the taste. Im looking for the special taste.

Thats hardly it.

But wouldnt hurt the trying.

Bartender shrugged his shoulders, though started with the strangers order. The mixed wine

colour came as pomegranate rot, and neither smell nor taste resounded like the spell of Pleurs dAffe.

However, despite this, vampire didnt curl or weep just drank, sip after sip, watering eyes with

woeful pomegranate shadows.


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Could anything have changed since he did try the spicy opium of tears, but no winds or

dampness accompanied him then into the pub: just stranger warmth of overwhelming passion a

current rearing up the waves, whilst instants of blinding coition. This is why (as there s no other

answer) she got drawn to him the night lady, being one of those patrons of pubs, who lives for abite of some casual feeling. She sat down next to him and, smiling, following with artful hungry eyes,

tasted his wine.

What is that drink you sip, despondent beauty?

Both salty and spicy, yet fruitless

Odd-tasting, indeed

Can you rain? Allof sudden he asked, gazing through the pomegranate cloud.

What?Surprised at first, girl laughed, then giggled. Ah, I see! Believe me, I can surely cry,

if thus are wishesAnd she playfully reached for her plump mellow lips.

Show me.

Dont beat around the bush? I hope in bed youre not that hasty!She smiled again, taking his

hand. Come! I will show you...

Camellia, torn into shreds by the smoky wind, salt paint and shade of burnt nut, green

poisonous tea and swollen anise starmore spicy and rougher the wine, like a cheap table liquid,

diluted, served there, wheres no space for the elegant concord. Thus tasted her the lady of the

nighttraded her simple casual delight for the ticket to last lamented destination.

When shenaked, caressing his skin cried at last, he went kissing her madly, licking tears,

calling her my fair Fall; but with each further sip disappointment had grown: for her rain was

another, not even a bit like the haunting heart Pleurs dAffe. Then she screamed, tried to run, spat

curses and coughed, but vampire had wrapped his embrace drinking her tears in a hope that

somewhere within might reveal that inspiring bouquet. Alas, dried her to death, thrown in anger her

goblet at ground, only whetted by drearily distant and elusive aroma of his loving drug subtle

blossom of my favored perfume, spread with camellias petalsby the dank winds...

Sadly he looked at the girl, who lay breathless beside. He drank her rain, all her tears,

delivering into arid world, where red-hot wasteland sun devours spirits. And, watching her dead

withered body, he feared himself, understanding not, why had killed, though felt that even those

tearsdgiven him something special, dissimilar to habitual bore-pouring rain. He even sensed that if

autumn is gone, he could wander in parks by the sunlit alleys, midst the crowds, not fearing the

drought, not returning to his gloomy and swampy lacklustre grotto.


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V

That night the storm enveloped city. And lasted for the day, thrusting madness of needling rains

in the avenue skins. When me, the narrator of this eccentric story, stayed on the balcony of aged

forsaken house, unsealed to the pulsative rhythms of ravening skies, mixing, like autumn vampire,

spiced rum with rainwater, spectating, how favourite artist smudged paint at the dark English

anguishing canvas by threatening string. These times I would always be anxious to leave my still

trembling shades, ceasing the lamp, and walk into the rain, set promenades along the sodden

pavements, bidding farewells to men that extinguish at any wet trifle neath the sheds, yond the

doors.

Weve been everalike with my hero in these aimless drifts into the rain. But that night he felt

different, untouched by the thundering lay

There I stayed for a while, leaned against the ancient wall, listening to the autumn vampire

disclosing those heavy soul-shattering sounds, as if willing to break his ringing-sad xylophone. As if

he could hear rain no morehis mesmerizing ratebut made his own, vigorous and loud: to drown

the hunger within. Thus wearisome women are raped. Thus rush from the brink to the riffs. To

delirious knocking of bells at the head

He tried to remember his song, but tears swallowed the sanity, stealing concord bygone. I could

hear his scream, then the cymbals of thunder rebounded; was being huntedby torn leaves vertigo till

the end, when anew blinding withering sun burst through clouds, breathing out lilac smoke to the

housetops of grey.

That endless, ambiguous October the season of rhythms and snakes, zeros and infinite wars.

When else but this timeless exterior could happen the story, which spells draw autumn to windows

and harvest the rains like the roses, the colourless dames, wearing wounds wherefrom thorns are

blossomed. Yet, this is not another fairy tale (of those that people tell), and I wont hush the blood by

cutting down the deaths... still there magic rains, and my beloved hero, despite all, excites the

sympathy. Maybe now he watches you through the autumnal tears...

He never lived as a human before, was hiding from the world, aside. Thus hardest thing was: to

become like them. When meeting they saluted one another, then spoke about weather for somewhy.

No poetry of heart, no word of mind, no eye-admiring touched themat theatres might be, but on the

city streets they didnt care muchbut weather and the captions of the daily news.


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How do you do, sir! Marvelous weather it is!

Indeed

What a sun! Such a pleasure to sight! Finally, fine weather spell after cloudy sorcery whatnews could be that much delightful!

Indeed

But the Queen! Haventyou heard? How courtly is her choice of wine!

Indeed

Exclamatory nonsense

He couldnt sense this life, as couldnt tell why people prefer sunny brightness to rain. But that

he knew: those people one and all desiring to be happy, having proclaimed their rituals as festivals

and church, hid storm-clouds inside of special rain the drug of pure ecstasy, whichd given him

the power to trespass the seasons verge, to burst through dungeon of eternal autumn and wreck

askesis, abandoning the grotto in rumours of legends gone by.

He stayed in modest but spacious flat of camellia girl, trading her place for his former being.

Got some money, purchased cane and hat, and black velvety gloves matching colour of dark round

glasses, which helped his eyes endure the brightness of afternoon sun. And more, what is much

curiosier (being characteristic to young cherub-like beings)obtained small secret diary, wrapped in

black leather, which entitled by blood of the rainwith his magical spell: Pleurs dAffe.

Despite the tears that soothed vampires hunger (yet havent dried) still filled his granite veins,

he realized, they couldnt be enough to struggle with that lifeless summer. Thus, forcing to forget his

deep obsession to find her his fairFall, the first he tastedhe went out, mingling with Londoner-

dandies on the even boulevard, searching for another prey-tears, their sorrowful limbo.

People gathered in pairs or companies, gossiping nonsense and captions of recently news.

There, amidst the great numbers of motley assorted devotees of simulated hearts, twas hard to find

someone who cries out his burden sincerely. Vampire perceived this when drifted through pomaded

fates, and as the hunger grew stronger he feltstill despising himself for the killing that could kill

again for the opium tears, which would comfort his roaring spirit.

Despondent, he nestled on the fallen leaves plaid, spectating at distance, from under the oak

canopy, how silhouettes fade with the creeping up night; looking out, subdued to the instinct, for the


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prey that would comfort his mind. At a sudden he thought hed gone mad hearing voice of a child

reaching out from thickening darkness. But, as listened, having forced hunger to rest for a while, he

was sure for real: little girl, rung of lament and pain, spoke to him.

Sir can you hear me, sir?

Aye

Youre odd, sir... beautiful, well-dressed, sitting on the dirty soggy leaves.

Just tired, need a rest

Odd. Why not rest on the bench?

Indeed but thats for them Vampire smiled. Say, have you ever wondered what do

leaves think of?

No, sir

Look He took the pallid leaf, lost in the side of his coat. This little leaf had a family

before and lived right there on one of those branches above. But one day his family forgot him, or

hed gotten lost by himself, carried away by hunting the wind, splashing in heavenly bath, thus, like a

tear down the cheek, had befallen to ground. There, midst many of other stray leaves he tried hard to

live longer, yet just suffered more from kicks of heartless heels. Thats how he lived, hurt puppy,

licking old and freshly wounds. But then one day when he abased before the face of death, he was

taken by passerby stranger, and warmed under his canopy.

Smiled again, he put leaf in the pocket and looked at the girl. In her eyes tears were shaking

to melt.

You are likepain... which I never would heal, as I cantblow away stormy clouds. But I could

become rain that will wash away tears, ceasing hurts of your weary shrouds.

But I dont like rain

You shall love himAnd he sheltered her under the coat, giving hair a tousle.

Then she couldnt refrain any longer and burst into tears, though had used to control herself

during the seasons of streetshurried to wipe them away, but vampire grasped dead her weak hands,

and the breath of rain slid like a knife on her watery cheek.

Which bouquet smells of maple leaves, seasoned in puddles in drowsy sparkles of the last

lanterns breath


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Tenderly, almost rocking to sleep, he recovered from under the cloak dry petal of neglected joy,

letting fall living sorrow to bottom of puddling stars. Some believe children have their own

heaven and hell. But that tearfulpainhad dissolved in the season of universe. With ever skyd spread

canopy of rain.


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VI

Fall sadly watched her shadow in the window being slowly covered by the rain. The skies

couldnt have held thepainendured no more, hence shed their grief upon the grave of gentle youth,

from grey and hazy veins, broken by thorns. London put cigarette heart at the flesh of soporific

lantern; then, thoughtfully staring below, stiffened still in expectance of last tardy cab. And though

his shade gave away: with his bound wrist pricked by a nonchalant needle; yet he acted the same

lonesome sorcerer who tied up crossroads, alleys, side streets of arterial wheel-tracks and steps with

tight noose of his resolute will.

Different cities inhabit the world. Some alike friends, do all their best to help people live

happily. Othersof grey eminencespectate and study, seldom intervene in time, being Is that

selfish: they consume the creatures alike them. Somewild cats, and on their own they oftly stray

abroad: never thence return, leaving abandoned homes and road-spines un- live. As for London

the ever-coughing spectre, Albion reaper had imaged a tired escapee, finally wilfully came to his

sentence, strangled by his own heavy rust breath. He was matured in sickness: respiratory, cardial,

osteal, psychic. Some of them he could hide, but all had to be lived with: thus people accustomed to

lame shut-in old man, whose chronic coughs have seasoned the nursery halls of soot-streets with

nicotine ashes and blood of Byronic d isorder.

Fall tasted wine, losing sight of the late London cab; then having the candle beheadedshe

listened to rain, closing eyes. To the tune so tearfully nigh, which had carried to park: there on watery

bench she would find him the autumn vampire, a bitter illusion of her pointless waits kissing her

salty lips. She tried to forget him, but sorrow of night-gowned clouds hurt spirit again: then she left

home, muffling in shawl, being led by faint calling of fatuous heart (always aching ineptly) to the

place, where in maple languor and wetness of nocturnal void Rain granted though afterwards

plundered her candour.

An orphan alley bade her gloomy welcome; and silent bench, which mouth unsealed but once,

bent to her feet. Its branchy figure, lachrymal, spread shivering neath the maple crowns, raising the

skirts, to stop their wetting in the puddles, changing to the blackened mirror wells of rainy spell.

There blossomed silhouettes of nightily lampions, half-shielded by the palms of new moon rising;


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with feeble cries of wolvesold wails, ramming off distant doors and walls, kicked the heralds of

autumn around, casting malady wreaths down-rods2.

She waited, but the time stood still in pouring land; therefore she left behind the ghosts of

musty lanterns, as following some instinct in a trance catching at the echoes of faraway elegy:burst on the lash-tips, dissolved on the alkali tongues, interred beyond the tombstones of desolate

brooks. There, in obsidian casket black swans swallowed tormenting pain, laid in deathbed of rain.

There in cradle of storms cherub ceased, choked with feathery clouds. Decayed Cupid had portrayed

the curving of merriment

She sat down by the edge of swan pool, letting feet into lacklustre water. Autumnal tortures

reflected in flowers of pain; lilies tangled in hair the weeds had been peacefully nibbled by

proudly birds. By their necks, as by delicate windings of bridges waterfalls of ethereal regions

down the showery goblet trickled lunar-strain drops, blending into the season of fade, making liquor

for those whose names are recorded in tears.

His elegy died at the moment she entered the grotto. He cherished her view such desired,

expectedcovered by darkness ofpain; yet resisted the urge to come out from stony embrace. From

the niche, unseen and still, he spectated his beauteous Fall, biting lips, holding crescent insanity,

awoken by novel sensation of morphium rain. He could drink her to dregs, drain the goblet of tears,

but had feared that finished at once he would never partake Pleurs dAffe the deific nectar thatd

shown him the world rich with plentiful patterns of haunting desirable scents. Thus he, motionless,

wished her to leave: just to trace her again through alleys and parks, wouldnt have let her known

himself as a wild mad-howler, a killer, vampire of rains.

It seemed almost an aeon had passed till she left off with nightly inclemencies. C urtained newly

born sun, taught the p iano to lament and dream, covered crescendo-strings with frayed coat, casting

rivers of boiling veins flow by crystalline beds from the cloudy tops with elegiac sounds. Alike

autumn vampire she wished to neglect to leave rainless behind. Shed imagine the sea-line: there

behind herhypnotics of Ireland; there before herbelow the dusk-bowturquoise sonnet wrapped

in terra-cotta plaid hung over the land; and revealing through the razors of light, guiding overcast

swarms (like a kiteby the Sethian thread) would a stranger approach, whose name knocked with

rainat the windows of her unsealed heart.

2Down-rods (poetic abridgement of the phrase: down on the fence rods).


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What are these?She would whisper.

A gift

What a beauty fresh cloudy bouquetOf best blooms from the palace of rain

Take me there, I beg you!

I cantHe would shake his head turning from her to the darkening sea. I will waste you.

Some-rain youll just end up being one of those clouds, who follow me as a dreary shades.

Like that girl?

Like that girl or another

But why?

Not to stop loving you

Killingfor loving

Aye


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VII

Damn sun again Does he annoy you, sir?

Oh aye indeed.

Still mixing wine?

The taste is all the same

Perhaps, you havent known the taste you love.

I have though couldnt drink. The more I sought, the more I craved the more had fear to

waste. This wine could be the fairest in a million. And if I empty her then just a bottle left, recalling

sadness. Whats the sense? Next day I shall want more, but wont find any better: and my life will

become just an endless nostalgia for taste, unique above all. Unhappily, all vessels dry

But this is life: finding sole unique wine amidst anyand, tasting her ideal art, live the best of

your time.

To drinkperchance forget and thereupon? To hide in coat and steal away at night into the

storm, shedding the rainthe tearsas shadow fading with the clouds to star of day? Cant bear this,

nay3

Me either. Though open aye.

Their sights collided: old tender and autumn vampiregrey stone and colourless b lood.

I wish the rain be timeless

Then neither spell of prelude nor postlude would cast. That same arrested life, as if Londoners

would pester me with continuous rounds of pints, of a different kind, losing taste and minds. But

everyone prefers his own sort, but wouldnt even constantly consume it: because the sorts variety

exactly helps to better understanding how full and rich is his own personal beloved nectar, whichas

the anodyne to woecan rest his soul

3All usion to the monologue of Shakespeares Hamlet (To be, or not to be...), composed in the same manner by the

lip-drops of a utumn vampire.


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***

Autumn vampire, beleaguered with agonized lust, had abducted the numerous vessels of rain,

one by one. But the more seduction hed devoured, the more hed remembered the tasteastringent

opium ofFall, which had been beckoning thus much and tortured his unrest, abruptly turned into a

humanly-possessed spirit. His diary of rainy ink had put on bloodstained leathers vampire of tears

had shifted in vampire of men, whose life from sensuous eclecticism now filled with wasted captions

from the buried widows

***

Since time they met again, by may-be-luck, at one of balls that peopledhave as lawful mask

for vicious congregations. They danced throughout the evening, and left with holding hands. One day

they stayed at his place, another day at hers. While in-between had promenades along that alley,

where had firstly met, in rain.

He cursed himself he wouldnt leave. She reproached with herself wishing him near. Together

they dreaded of time, when the clouds would fade

Which happened, as always could happen in life. Sun fell upon streets of the city, and no single

cloud had blackened Londons grey hair for three days by then. Autumn vampire felt drought. He

was losing control, powers waned; she, beside, watched his sufferings, fearing to leave him alone, as

a human, acquainted with love, would afraid of her near departure.

With hungry sight he scoured the land in search for faces, sadly close to shed, but nothing

could break through the perfect scent of his jealousFall. He tried to be alone, but every time her eyes

poured tears, he couldnt leave, not to increase her painbut not to drain, like orphan girl hed killed

in compassionate will to give comfort. Though every day vampire weakened, famished, paled like a

lantern, crippled on the bridge across the dried-up riverbed, and Fall wouldnt refrain from shedding

more, as dying candle sheds her viscid nectar.

He rushed to her, kissed, licking off her salty drug, partaking maddening bouquet of Pleurs

dAffe. Thereafter, being self anew, spectated how she driedhow withered at his sight his fair Fall,

becoming waterless enfeebled vessel. But heseasoned to pain tearless vampire, born under canopy

of storms in bed of rainyet drank her life, her will, her grief, her loving.


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20


I drank the wine

I see. No disappointment?

Why, the fairest taste!No mixing further then?

Oh, nay!

But whats the taste? Can you describe your wine?

Ah! Hers

His eyes, just full of life and colour, clouded. Odd feeling within made confused. The taste that

he sought, that he loved he forgot it, abandoned. As he never had known strange spell Pleurs

dAffe, never met that rain revelation, which had torn him out of the sullen grotto, breaking the

shadow chains.

From your pensiveness, sir, can tell thus. Youve forgotten to taste, just drained to the lees,

simply pleasing the caprice of hunger; thence no memory nothing is saved of that precious vessel,

which has been so dear to you just a while ago, as you felt.

Havent answered, autumn vampire ran headlong through mazes o f walls and barriers of men to

see her whod inspired the sense that he lost in the blinding defiance of days. There, beyond the

window, in expectance of eventide lanterns, he felt her again like that time, when had tasted her

firstly under the autumnal rain: slightly caressed her sunken cheeks and sharp arch-brows,

thoughtfully touched her dry hands, wrapped in thin cloth of skin; uncovered, turning the pagesthe

leaves, inscribing with swan-pen the tears of rain-coloured poesy...

Something quavered then in the city of rains, and for a second to storm smoked heaven of heart

had serened.

If rain be timeless nothing shall be changed and even rain himself will taste of water. It is

inconstancy that makes so hard but desirable overcast grief. Myself the narrator of this dont

fancy constants. Despite all inspiration and dreaming of rain, I accept his ebbs and flows, for them

also are enchanting spells. Might have earlier cravingly waited (like the autumn vampire) for the

heaven to mope, trading sun for the darkness of shivery grave... but for now, admit that serene sky

can do marvels either.


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I love you

I love

Fallsmiled, from under her eyelids poured tearssmall diamonds of most sincere and rainbow

dreams. Rain, thundering within, shed over her calmly; and tenderly drew in with lips the debris ofher liqueur, mirth-sorrow

The special wine. Pleurs dAffe. Which grows in eventide falls from the rarest overcast tears.

Which bouquet smells of maple leaves, seasoned in puddles in drowsy sparkles of the last lanterns

breath hurried, floundering glow of dark-roasted tobacco and ashes from beheaded matchsubtle

blossom of my favored perfume, spread with camellias petalsby the dank winds, blended into the

sweetish sativa of misty October. Which taste firstly is salty, weepy, wed with rough and spiced

tempranillo, opening further in bitterish duo of opium dusk and scorched almond-heart, with a

colouful finish of astringent conifer tar, melted in sighs of ailing kisses.

Pleurs dAffeare the tears of love


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22

VIII

This legend came in season of the fall. In one of all, when burning hot are pavements, and

people partake beer and cider, hiding in the shades from frenzy of the dusty sun. That time the

sudden drought befell quite yet unhealthy London, and even those, whod used to whine bout

weather, begged and prayed for the rain.

When the wind from Irish Sea had blown black painful clouds, which enveloped most of the

heavenly canvas, people thought, tis witchery or God. Merrily they sprang out on the streets,

grateful to rain that played coda to unwonted British drought: and they leapfrogged in puddles,

dancing and laughing together with the joyous minstrel chants. Yet, after an hour of infinite shower

their ardeur ceased, and menreborn to sullenplodded on to their doors, wearing weathery grudge.

They say then had happened one hell of a rain ever yawned above London. And presumably

rumours tell sooth: even old man himself, setting soaked wet jacket, couldnt hold quite

unwelcoming words to that eerie fall, knocking back Islay scotch. However, I know: in the deeps of

his smoked English heart had compassion, being sad with the fate of the one, whose tears had

crushed at the crossroads of serpentine chains, ripping rains off his chest with the gust-pains and

deathly diffusions.

Later some whispered a tale of clouded figurea spirit of eventide fog, who carried a woman

in scarlet camellia dress; and the scent of her hair the velvety almond liqueur with a bite of fresh

southern sativa whirled curls into mellowing dormancy of tangoing leaves. Two spectres of dust

bovethe rain-gowned park, on heaven and earth in the paintings of smog, in the mirrors of rain-

echoed elegies. Two autumn-beloved; their eyes full of rain streamed with mosaic sparkles,

which then, disappearing in greys, blazed with dusk.

Since, the legend is told: there in comfort of smoke and kisses of rain you can come into

flowerstheir buds are like chalices goblets of wine, subtly weaved from the autumnal pleasures.

They turn to skies, down their bitter tears; and if you try to touchdecay to lees.

A bit farther neglected mysterious garden, where still in the pond close to decrepit chapel

black swans spread their wings in the rain. Here, even if weathersserene, ever clouds lament oer

grave of love, cloaking the grotto in lyrical, delicate, salty and overcast sorrow.

And fair timeless Fall by purling leafage drawsthe elegyof sails on rainy tides
http://www.realmusic.ru/songs/749369/http://www.realmusic.ru/songs/749369/http://www.realmusic.ru/songs/749369/http://www.realmusic.ru/songs/749369/

the legend of autumn vampire

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