Fools!-
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.
It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched Von a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their Schauspielen superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did know, did find out our crime,
So much the better for us.
We would still get our fame.
The play was that of the “star-crossed lovers”,
Young,
Foolish,
Doomed to die.
And so would our fools perish.
Opening night-
We were prepared.
Backstage, madness ran rampant,
But we kept calm.
And in the frenzy,
We made our move.
One trip to the Requisiten table,
Unnoticed in the chaos,
And our work was done.
We watched them-
She in bloodred,
He in sickly green-
Nervous.
Not nervous enough.
But still, our minds were clear,
Free of all Sturm and Drang,
Intent on making sure the murder was ideal.
They were upon the stage.
They had not yet realized what we had done.
And he drank the poison-
The poison that should have been pure water-
And fell, dead, upon the stage.
He had no time to panic.
And, Minuten later, she fell, too,
Stabbed Von steel
Not the plastic she had expected.
Shocked into silence
As she died a bloody death.
Two fools lay dead.
The curtain closed.
Screams from backstage
teilt, split the noise of the crowd.
Applause fizzled to a stop.
Blackout.
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.
It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched Von a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their Schauspielen superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did know, did find out our crime,
So much the better for us.
We would still get our fame.
The play was that of the “star-crossed lovers”,
Young,
Foolish,
Doomed to die.
And so would our fools perish.
Opening night-
We were prepared.
Backstage, madness ran rampant,
But we kept calm.
And in the frenzy,
We made our move.
One trip to the Requisiten table,
Unnoticed in the chaos,
And our work was done.
We watched them-
She in bloodred,
He in sickly green-
Nervous.
Not nervous enough.
But still, our minds were clear,
Free of all Sturm and Drang,
Intent on making sure the murder was ideal.
They were upon the stage.
They had not yet realized what we had done.
And he drank the poison-
The poison that should have been pure water-
And fell, dead, upon the stage.
He had no time to panic.
And, Minuten later, she fell, too,
Stabbed Von steel
Not the plastic she had expected.
Shocked into silence
As she died a bloody death.
Two fools lay dead.
The curtain closed.
Screams from backstage
teilt, split the noise of the crowd.
Applause fizzled to a stop.
Blackout.
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not Liebe the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach oder bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Liebe were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not Liebe the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach oder bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Liebe were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
'Tis sagte that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors Von an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare Blumen did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the traube luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The Liebe of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
Von the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the herz whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant Blumen of song!
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors Von an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare Blumen did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the traube luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The Liebe of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
Von the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the herz whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant Blumen of song!