come
converse the violin—the one struggling—at fire into rain into hailstorm; the
deepest dejection, the dreary sands, the dreaded deaths; at violin, at music,
words seem fruitless—like fickle dreams—upon flute to frame the feather. she
was with hardship, the indescribable opened her soul, the freedom of the
failure, the triumph of the success, the nerd to share with time, another gathering—of
figs and fruits and fever. the pain of the violin, sheer disgrace, faced by
agony, arriving in seconds, divided into moments. life as an unhappy musician,
to enter numen grounds, so religiously anti-religious—so much contradiction, so
great the human sound—as souls soar, affronted and affirmed, the fire of the chalice,
the mockery of the clarity, to arrive at a point in excellence—to crumble at
reality, the farse, the division, the mind floating. so grand the execution, so
tremendous the appetite, so dark the symphony; as spirits in sullenness, at
rescued inside, trying not to relocate depression—the one to leave us to
serenity, the gargoyle needing a life, at grave penalty, the mind leaping, the
world disappearing into one travesty. the violinist is in a space, has
transcended, has place for atmosphere, ambition, trans-communication; as words
are stars, tragedy in pace, communion in opera, the unveiled applaud.
