To The End
The End, Ragnar Kjartansson (2009)
A frozen white carpet rolls out
to blackrock mountains that stretch to spear the sky.
Dwarfed against this blue Icelandic scene
a baby grand piano sits, its lid raised to the frigid air.
He pushed it here –
right up to the edge of this lonely range.
The snow-path drags for miles.
He blows on white fingers, plays an ètude
to lure the woman in the long black coat.
He wants what we all want: to want.
To want to follow someone to the end,
even if he can’t tell from his seat at the keyboard
whether she is walking closer, or moving further away.
The End, Ragnar Kjartansson (2009)
A frozen white carpet rolls out
to blackrock mountains that stretch to spear the sky.
Dwarfed against this blue Icelandic scene
a baby grand piano sits, its lid raised to the frigid air.
He pushed it here –
right up to the edge of this lonely range.
The snow-path drags for miles.
He blows on white fingers, plays an ètude
to lure the woman in the long black coat.
He wants what we all want: to want.
To want to follow someone to the end,
even if he can’t tell from his seat at the keyboard
whether she is walking closer, or moving further away.
