April 1st

In the days of our elders, tales were told to children of the 'Taint'. It was used by mothers to scare and warn them of the darkness.

It is very real however.

I have found myself contaminated by this virus, even tho I have strived to avoid it at all turns. It is a cunning thing that creeps up on the unwary soul. Having said that, even the wary find themselves overtaken by its corruption.

To this day I have strived hard to limit its influence on me, it does lately slow in its effects upon me....indeed, my other skills now gain in strength.....but, it will take a long haul to overcome this blemish on my character.

I will continue in my endeavours towards the eradication of this blight on myself, I do tho realise its uses, but when it becomes overwhelming as it so often does , then I must react to its caresses of my mind.

It is a drug, it is a scent, it is a thought that perveys itself within. I am confident that I will overcome, beguiling as it is, I shall be relentless always in my resolve towards its seductions....


Eduardo Manklow





April 4th

It weighs still more heavily, sending my shoulders forwards. My step becomes unsure.

Which way should I turn, who shall I turn to?

Tho my finesse seems to be brighter, the reciprocal cost saddens my mind leadens my spirit.

I train daily concentrating in turn, on each of those to counter the 'Taint', yet still it courses thro my veins.

I drown myself in fermented Wormwood. The green comfort given is soothing. I need search for more.

The flickering streets these days weary mine eyes. Puddles of hope evaporate before them where once joy reigned. I turn unto the sound in my head but sigh dismally. It is merely the shallow whisper of memories gone past. Where did my youth hide, where did all I once know and cherish run to.

All I see before me and around only strives to give substance to that which now haunts, that which reaps my strength. These words bleed on the paper before me. I know, I pray I will have the length of time granted to overcome, to become........


Eduardo Manklow





April 6th

I have been walking the night time streets for hours, the weather suits my mood. Snow falls, the wind bitter, freezes thro to my heart. The purety of the whiteness screams to me, no footprints show, just my own solitary marks which fall behind me, only to quickly be hidden by fresh falls.

Few lights shine in the windows either side of me, everything is dulled, hushed, whispery.

The first inklings of a fresh dawn herald the first chorus, the sound bites in my ears. It reminds me of times when things were not as now. I pause to listen, remembering those who once I loved are no longer beside me....I sigh.

A sudden glimpse of colour, a new smell invades my thoughts. I follow its lead and see ahead a figure crimson scarved. I sense purity, innocence, joy. I gain on my unknown lead. My heart beating stronger in hope, in anticipation.

Could this one person be that unseen for years now? I am rapidly led thro alleys and streets I do not recognise, turning sharply to the left, abruptly to the right. I sense I am closeing on my quarry. If I could just speak to her, for it is surely a girl, not much older it seems than my own dear daughter that died so many decades ago now. She too succumbed to the 'Taint' until it overwhelmed her and took her to an early grave.

I turn into yet another alley, seeing the footsteps I desire lead me into its dark corners.

Nothing, no one?

I fall unto my knees shuddering with exhaustion, the cold snow draining my warmth and last strengths, something, ahead, red. The red left alone against the white. I grasp it to my face, caressing its freedom, its owner gone now.

I return to the main streets, the scarf tucked close to my heart. It gives me hope.... there still remain those who command purity, I know this now, even after so many years. Light shines true to me signalling I should not yet give in....


Eduardo Manklow





April 7th


In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.

This mantra I have repeated now for over 200 years past gone, it soothes my demons that I may sleep. Tho sleep it must be said, is a loose term for what I must endure. With my eyes closed, different demons plague me. Ones of regret and hidden meaning. Over the years they have become familiar, almost welcome. The confused
pain I feel on waking, numbs the nightime, for it is during the day that I find it easier to rest my soul.

In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.


I dream. I wish not to, but I dream nevertheless. Flashes of that gone by, intermingle with that which may be. The past becomes future, the tangible written on a canvas of unfathomable oils. Birth becomes youth becomes aged becomes death. Stark reminders are a constant cross for my shoulders.

I toss and turn under my bedclothes.

In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.

Slumber thankfully beckons, heavily I sleep. My mind rolls thro landscapes of twisted possibilities, impossible constraints. The friends and families I have been part of call to me, plead once more. Arms stretched and asking, demanding of me..... 'Will you remember us, will you.....honour us?'. My sleep as always becomes more fragmented as I fight thro my visions. Wrestling against a suffocating lightmare I snap upright. Drenched in sweat, my sheets sodden once more. My heartbeat pounding in harmony with the cities evening sounds.


In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.
In somnus nos fides, suscitatio nos vereor, in nex nos sileo.

In....
Nex....
Nos....
Sileo........


Eduardo Manklow




April 10th


I know not whether I wake or sleep these days. Each is embroiled threateningly into the other. From village to town, all is unquestionably in turmoil. The sweet smell that sticks to me runs free, it is pure. It is vivid even more than the crimson scarf that I hold dear. These lucid times alive the senses make, yet it is with heavy soul that I recognise the cull that overtakes us all. I glimpse torn flags raised halfway, dying on their poles. The same children that fear the 'Taint' now run screaming to their mothers, and lie together waiting their fate.

The spinners laugh from above, only they know what must surely become of us. The web they cast forms a sickening mockery of life. I take the locket from my neck, its silver workings now long worn from use, I open it. Its contents offer me little solace these days, I wish only that I may join her finally. End this torment that life has become, lay together in eternity.

I kneel and attempt to pray to whatever Gods may be listening but all I hear in answer is the silence of their indifference. I have been long forsaken now. It bothers me not. I spit a curse at humanity, faith is a fickle thing. We worship when it suits us, when we are in need. Tonight I do not need. I draw a tired breath and somberly walk out to the screams. I look up to the skies and curse once more.

'Weave your worst, for even that is not enough tonight'......


Eduardo Manklo




April 10th


Numb.

My body is racked with a burning fever unlike anything I have felt before. The realisation of what has come to pass lately, so many lost souls, so many bereft of their final spark. I hold my head deep in my blood-stained hands, slick still, the stain never to fade. Much that I have come to cherish these days, now fading into history. I am unable to shed needed tears anymore. Long gone are those days. I will not. I must not. Comfort, I know, will take considerable time to offer herself to me again, I fuel myself with caffeine instead.

Pacing relentlessly in my prison, my rented room near the river. From here the window commands a clear view. One which interests me little. Yet.....

I cast my vision to the abbundance of life still performing it's daily duties outside. It is all so mundane and fruitless. Hand to mouth. I hear laughter and grimace at its harshness, an old forgotten song comes to mind and I find myself humming it. Ahhh, the rapture I once felt then! It was precious, fresh, it was....like footsteps....in....snow.

I can not free my mind of the vision, the pounding of my heart aches me to a point I spin around aimlessly, thrashing at my surroundings. Is that all this life offers me in this age? A momentry beacon of hope? Is that all damn it?

I throw my cup across the room splintering it in cascades over my bed. I pace with even more pupose, eventually turning to my diary which I clasp tightly in my trembling hands. This symbol, this anchor, this constraint on me. So many times I have meant to burn them all, cast them forever more behind me. But alas, I no more have the power to do this than I have to shake the constant melancholy that I endure.

Resigned to my fate, I once more, pick up my pen....


Eduardo Manklow




April 12th


I light a solitary candle.

A pathetic beacon, barely reaching the corners of my cell. It dances tho, mesmerising my mind. It's narcotic shimmer drawing deep into me, piercing through my skin. Leaving no scar, only that unseen. In my ears it roars, blazing fiercly. Wild and unharnessed. Drowning out my surroundings, they blur and sway in tandem with the flame .

Imperceptible hushes of smoke, trace serpentine curls of grey. Circling around, flittering from one place to another, their interest always distracted from their goal. Kisses of air waft aimlessly thro the crack in the window, drifting in mimic of the smoke. Mesmorised I follow their movements, captured perfectly in the moment, until they entwine in a self-destrucrive confusion only to be replaced soon after with their brothers and sisters.

My eyes close and I concentrate on the heat held within the fire before me. Slowly at first then suddenly enveloping me I bathe within its life, throughout its presence. Its effect is instantly calming. A primitive drive fills me, bending me over untill, legs still crossed, my back touches on the floor behind me.

My mind rushes from me forcing its way thro the same crack in the window, Its edges worn smooth now from decades of passage. It takes me howling into the skies, putting even the candleflame's shimmerings to shame.Cavorting blissfully thro a maelstrom of emotions. Streaking relentlessly towards the first-born shafts of sunrise, before finally plunging. Falling with anticipation, with relish.

Content.

Free.

Sleep, will this day, be something that refreshes....


Eduardo Manklow




April 25th


I am a child once more, barely past my fourteenth birthday. I have been training relentlessly for many years now it seems in preparation for what lays ahead of me. My father worries needlessly. I have proven that I am capable, being trained by the finest that Lisbon has to offer. He is old now and having never re-married, fears that I will only find my doom in the coming wars. He should know me better than that, yet even he knows not how close I came to death last year.

I am sure the reaper did indeed breath his fetid odours upon me, and still I awoke. Unharmed, stronger....wiser. Some folk show instant distaste to such wisdom in one of so few years. It bothers me little for they will all pass, eaten in the ground, little more than manure for the soil. Their empty lives becoming as meaningless as the short spark that was their years. I know that I will outlive them and their children and their children's children.

This saddens me greatly, will I ever know love? Or having found it, will it grow old and die in my arms leaving me broken?

My father shakes my hand vigourously and ruffles my hair. He passes me a small bag full of food for my journey. He looks to the skies his eyes full and asks me to wait a moment while he goes back to the
workshop. He returns with a long bundle that is lovingly wrapped and tied with six ribbons, which I recognise as belonging to my mother. It was the sword, crafted by his own father which I still wield to this day.

As I turn to start my lonely walk to the docks and to the Americas, he calls me back. Taking a finely engraved silver locket from his neck, he places it around my own. Finally his emotions overcome him and he grasps me close to himself, arms tight around each other we look painfully into each others eyes.....words are not needed.


Eduardo Manklow




April 29th


Today has not been the best of days.

I sense around me those similar to me, yet they understand little. They are eaten by greed. Their hunger overwhelms them....they are beholden unto their base desires. I know they are aware of me but I care little for their interests in my life. Indeed, I welcome their attempts at my soul. Little do they know that it will ever be held by another. My keeper, my sanctuary, my saviour.

No matter the pain they intend to cause me, I heed not their purposes for it pales in comparison to the harsh years I have endured without. Watching those I have loved pass to the soil pains me far more. How can there ever be anything to compare to that hurt? Impossible. So, I fear little these days....I welcome my own demise.

The sweet rest I anticipate makes my heart beat faster, soothes me endlessly. But it has been an age of waiting and still I endure. If only this torture would finish, would sound its last sonnet to me. That familiar melody still plagues my mind. Driven thro my body like a sharp winter frost.

I shiver uncontrollably, and curl my arms around myself. The fever comes upon me more frequently these days. Maybe it's my age, maybe it's the unfamiliar scents that surround me. Maybe I imagine this all. I clutch a blanket close around my shaking body my muscles tensing in rythmic spasms.

Slowly the seizures relinquish their hold upon me and I reach for the blade always hidden deepest within my clothing. Always keen, I raise it towards the moonlight that twists into my room and, holding it against my head, I purposefuly slide its steel kiss thro the first locks of hair, now tinged grey with years. Then the next, and the next. Soon, with shaven head I look once more thro the window upon a cold blue, lunar-lit townscape.

My pulse is soothed in satisfaction, my breath eases upon itself. I feel released....clean....steady once more.

I bow my naked head.




Eduardo Manklow