A Bach fugue vacates the church’s still air.
Its tangled
counterpoint finally uncoiled...
And now for
the musical mystic…
Octatonic
chords give us the colour of flowers.
They're
floating, adagio, into the vacated air.
The scented
tones rise into the higher air.
Our eyes
closed to a sonic oration…
The flow
continues.
Swelling
colour-chords
Coalesce into the timeless elsewhere.
Those below
mirror rainbow colours above.
And the
melody - now far above the sound-banks.
Is anyone
swimming, rich and warm,
In this
sweet water?...
Now the
choral motion is keener.
It breaths
spreading wider
- And climb
higher -
Into the
prior silence…
To this
climax of bliss:
His take on
Christian rapture,
On
Christ-like love.
An
expression in sound
Of a
beatific state.
His own soul, naked,
Before an
audience of strangers.
The
conservative and prudent
Have sat
through this work -
Some with a suffering, self-control.
And now, at
the end and finally,
It is our
right, if displeased,
To boo the
work and its creator.
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