День триффидов
The Groping City
Theoldheadstoneshadbeentakenupandsetbackagainstthesurroundingbrickwall,theclearedspaceturfedoverandlaidoutwithgraveledpaths.Itlookedpleasantunderthefreshlyleafedtrees,andtooneoftheseatsthereItookmylunch.
Theplacewaswithdrawnandpeaceful.Nooneelsecamein,thoughoccasionallyafigurewouldshufflepasttherailingsattheentrance.Ithrewsomecrumbstoafewsparrows,thefirstbirdsIhadseenthatday,andfeltallthebetterforwatchingtheirperkyindifferencetocalamity.
WhenIhadfinishedeatingIlitacigarette.WhileIsattheresmokingit,wonderingwhereIshouldgoandwhatIshoulddo,thequietwasbrokenbythesoundofapianoplayedsomewhereinablockofapartmentsthatoverlookedthegarden.Presentlyagirl’svoicebegantosing.ThesongwasByron’sballad:
Sowe’llgonomorea-roving
Solateintothenight,
Thoughtheheartbestillasloving,
Andthemoonbestillasbright.
Fortheswordoutwearsitssheath,
Andthesoulwearsoutthebreast.
Andtheheartmustpausetobreathe,
Andloveitselfhaverest.
Thoughthenightwasmadeforloving,
Aridthedayreturnstoosoon,
Yetwe’llgonomorea-roving
Bythelightofthemoon.
Ilistened,lookingupatthepatternthatthetenderyoungleavesandthebranchesmadeagainstthefreshbluesky.Thesongfinished.Thenotesofthepianodiedaway.Thentherewasasoundofsobbing.Nopassion:softly,helplessly,forlorn,heartbroken.Whoshewas,whetheritwasthesingeroranotherweepingherhopesaway,Idonotknow.
