The truth is a coy bird, insinuating itself into our words and thoughts; then just as quickly deserting us in a migration that carries it beyond our understanding. Cunning and quick, it arrives like a revelation and leaves with such secrecy we despair of every finding it again.
Enviable and yearned for, it hides within every nuance of life, waiting for recognition and its inevitable extraction. An invisible mystery, it is the buried spark, the perceptive fire. It proves that reality lurks, like coiled smoke: the dark glamour of hidden honesty.
We wear the truth like jewelry, where its nimble and diamond light waits for discovery by the astute viewer. Its quicksilver reflection is mirrored in the faceted iris; in the curl of the mouth – the twisting journey of revelation. In a crowded room, its sly brilliance is concealed from all except those who would look and listen.
Troubadours used to carry songs like feathers: multi-colored and decorative, they were meant to be plucked at a moment’s notice, all for the sake of payment and entertainment. They were fair lies and petty diversions, sung to ladies in their bowers, to the courtiers who lived within the court’s dishonest shadows. The songs – foolish and sentimental – were played for the youth that blithely and blindly played on the cusp of the Renaissance.
“Fortuna Desperata” was written in the late 15th century. The authorship has been debated: there are two or three possibilities. It is sad and romantic: the misery of unrequited love runs through it like a gilded sword. And the blood from such a seductive wound had nourished chivalry for generations.
But this song is dark and real – a portrait of hearts poisoned by fate. Could the writer have found this story within his own melancholy? Was he a witness to the event, or the cause? Or did he see it in a stranger’s face – in an expression that could not keep its sadness hidden; that could not deny its desperate fate?
iniquitous and maledicted
who blackened the good name
of a woman beyond compare.
O relentless death
inimical and cruel
that abased her,
who stood higher than the stars.
All alone and in despair
I can do nothing else than weep
and I desire my sorrow
to come to an end.