Tag: Csárdás
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Csárdás Part 4
Csárdás — (the heart’s Final fire) First,the bow drags slow.A raw, dusk-coloured moanrising from the fiddle’s belly,pulled from soil olderthan any spoken name. A field at sundown stirs there:the sag of an empty chair,steam rising from a bowl gone cold,a love that lingerslike breath on winter glass. Then, the spark catches. The heart remembers fire.The…
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Csárdás Part 3
Csárdás (as body-memory) The first stroke of the bowis not music;it is touch.A slow drag,a finger tracing the spineof the room. The sound is dark,sultry with sorrow,the colour of bruised wineand old heat. People close their eyes.Some wounds open.Some hips stir. Then the rhythm snaps!God, it snaps,and the body answersbefore the mind can. Heels strike…
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Csárdás Part 2
Csárdás (as the ancestors told it) First,a single note. Thin as winter smoke slips from the fiddle and winds through the roomlike an old woman’s blessing. It is the colour of duskon the Great Plain,the colour of storieswhispered beside the stovewhen wolves were still believed in. The bow drags slowly:sír a hegedű,the fiddle cries,and every…
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