The Tragedy

What have you done, "Mayy"?... said to her the fearful emptiness that was left to her, wrapping her round...
They were alone, "she" and "the emptiness."
I snatched you from your mother's womb to squeeze out the fruits of your youth and to shake the tree of your riper years, till not a leaf or a fruit remained...
I filled your house with glory and fame, with those who came to you from every quarter.
I left the men — poets and men of letters — at your feet, Mayy, balls rolling about the courtyard of the house...
I bound velvet and silk upon your head, and bound a black ribbon upon your heart...
Greater than all you ever sang, Mayy, is a song over a child's cradle that you never sang — and how you longed to sing it...

Greater than all you ever did, Mayy, than all the wounds you wiped away among men, is sweat wiped from the brow of a beloved — how you longed to do that, Mayy... and you did not.
Your life was lost in the pride of fame.
And here we are, you and I, alone...
No one is left to you but me, "Mayy." I am your father, and I am your mother, and I am your brother, and I am your husband...
We shall live together forever...
And when you depart from the earth, none will go with you but me — I, the emptiness...
And never again will you write anything great, Mayy...
except your life with me...