My Mandolin

My Mandolin
Mau pouca coisa,

So much venom is
varnished with my fear,
Hand-crafted, with a rich regret.

You have no strings,
Except the ones I draw for you
from the hurt of my life.

Mangled strands of hair
pulled taut from my brow,
then wrapped ruthlessly upon your tuning pegs.

My Mandolin
Um soberano do desespero!

For every sorrow that befalls me,
you covet one thread from my head,
Righteously, with a malice dignity.
A lone strand, for every tear I bleed.

Into My Mandolin I go,
before the grief can leave my eyes.

You bind my pain to your frets,
Enslaving me, etherized.
Dangling from your bridge
We are one!
Like some Archaic marionette
Swaying from its Master.

My Mandolin
Vindo, e seja contorneado!

For my scalp grows thicker
Under your impartial tempering
My hair is your strings, and they grow full,
They resonate in rich crimsons and ambers.
Tones of passion and strength,
that you thought no mortal could possess.
I reach my hands towards heaven.
Flowering buds of life
bloom forth from my finger tips
In quiet streams of blue.

The vines of my soul are released
Upon your splintered neck.

I grasp your head,
And tune my agony
To the very pitch of beauty.

My Mandolin
Abrace a morte!

The death of all you obliged to me
In the ruins of self pity and paralysis.
Now anguish is hammered,
A weapon, a single note,
An imprint of my resolution,
Echoes from your hallowed body.

With every chord I pluck
You still resist me.
You wind my hair tighter,
Pulling at raw flesh.

The blood races down my forehead
Into my sunken eyes,
But I continue to play my pain,
With glorious fury,
For the sake of the One,
who justifies me.

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