To Whet Thy Almost-Blunted Purpose
On my way to the cafe for dinner last night, I passed the busy traffic circle, and then paused for a moment. I thought I had heard someone speaking in Romanian. Which isn't entirely unlikely, given all of the visitors in Midtown. But it seemed that it was a woman, and that she had been addressing me.
In the Comedie Francaise performance that I saw last year in Budapest (a show from the current season, not a tour), the scenic conceit was that the entrance and exit doors were composed of an almost invisible lintel and two half-beams for the sides, forming a sort of upside-down "U" when suspended from the ceiling. Moments before a character exited or entered the scene (or, I suppose, began a new scene, as it was a classical French piece), the frame would light up, seeming to come into existence just before it was required.
It was a difficult winter, yes. And I suppose that I've sort of of fashioned an ice-breaker that could make it through the time. Now, it's springtime, and the birds of the forest remind me that I need to change this back into a research vessel. (While, perhaps keeping some of the useful machinery in abeyance.)
We are like prisoners, being hastened to execution. And the way is so difficult, and we are so caught up in our own strength in traversing it, that we sometimes fail to notice the luminous door that appears alongside.
Perhaps I was carried past an inauspicious encounter, or questionable devisement. And it's much more likely that I simply overheard her addressing a compatriot in her native speech. But to have traversed the place of encounter without marking it was genuinely troublesome, and I gave it much thought last night night and this morning.
...und noch, wie ein Traum, war
Ihm das innige Volk, vom Gottergeiste gerustet.