I loved it. Beautifully sad.
I wonder if Trumpet sings in this gray winter, cold as the embrace of a betrayal waiting behind the door, a gale of omens and sorrows. If he’s still spilling into gold feathers, if the mountains still feel moved by his singing. I wonder if I’ll ever hear him again. If he’ll return someday, if my tears will no longer remember him. If he still sings upright on the abject men, the faceless ones. If he only knew that he was singing, the meaning of his song. To sing because you’re happy, because you’re sad. To sing because they did cut off your wings, your legs, your hands. To sing even though they cut off your tongue, although your voice became a grotesque gurgle. To sing that they did cut off your tongue already, to sing because of that. To sing because they have cut off somebody else’s, to…
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