Is there absolution in music?
Or does perfection invest the silence?
No right have I to claim the office of a lover,
Nor deem myself a good and kindly man,
For fierce importunate lust drives me on,
Crashing through barriers,
Battling all-comers,
Without satisfaction or end.
Irony’s empire extends its frontiers further
With every iffy day.
And here is a token,
A bent coin,
A conversation overheard.
I offer no axioms,
Make no prophecies,
Do nothing save breathe.
Proud words,
Lofty impertinences,
Idiosyncrasies of the air!
Sad translator,
Solitude’s rabbi,
I slyly parse the world.
I claim no special gift:
Winds, rocks and dunes can also sing.
Mathematical proofs are not my forte.
Take me, or not, on trust.
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