A concert for the dying and dead

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is actually a paper that I had to do for my Lit. class about the character Juliek from the novel 'Night' and his final thoughts. I thought it turned out alright :)

Submitted: November 25, 2011

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Submitted: November 25, 2011



Beethoven's concerto. Music of which I am forbidden to play. A last act, a

last rebel, A last endeavour at my own humanity and perhaps everyone


Each note of my violin becomes one with the moans and cry’s of the

dying. As for the already dead...I wonder if they can hear, and if so...would

they join, or has heaven eased them of sharing this pain? Perhaps the pain is

intensified, perhaps they are just dead and nothing more. And Lois...what is

of him?

“Nothing” it is impossible not to consider when you are staring out

onto the dead. Their eyes staring back as if their souls never left. They

become my audience. A audience of the dying.

I allow myself to believe that I am performing in the Vienna Hall. On that

grand stage with millions watching. Their awed expressions at every glide of

my bow. Oh how marvelously tragic it is! How naïve I can be! Yet I bask in

it for I know that this is the closest to my dreams I will be- the closest to

living I will ever come again.

I brought my violin all the way here, not just for the fact that my fragile

soul could not part with it, for I somehow knew that this very moment

could come. A selfish act? Could be. Or an act of giving to those fighting

each other for the continuous beating of their own hearts. I know that I have

to play for everyone of them-until my own gives way.

My violin sings, its voice consuming my stage of the barracks either way!

Reminders of the surrounding world. The one outside of camps and marches

from one to another.

My fingers numb but the crys of my very being do not cease for what feels

like hours. Finally I slump down the corner beam of which I lean, my finger

tips still on their strings, my other hand still gripping the bow lightly. The last

billets utter with their last strength. My concluding symphony of sympathy.

Hopefully not to die with me...

“I know. I know.” I mutter, not knowing of who I answer.

We were not in hell. We were only the closest to hell that man could

accomplish. Yet this is the closet to hell only apart of man could

survive. Could I?

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