<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535586" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here the chipped ivory is only cloud.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Instrument, too very old, is Archetype.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Strings of gold do not a music make.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A lyre presses sterilely into where once</div><div style="margin:10px 0">was crotch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Crotchless, music is useless here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So am I. No one listens.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The only passion is the Christ's</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and that's all passed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Crowds are overtaken taking cue</div><div style="margin:10px 0">from Hosts Divine with Hosannahs</div><div style="margin:10px 0">of obligation clinical: </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Holy. Holy. Holy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I miss Canada.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cold. Precise. Canada.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Icicles there hear better what is played.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bitter wind cracks the fingers' skein.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Each note is pain. There's blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let us rejoice what is in scarlet shed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Let us praise its iron.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let its oxidation in us reign.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O lead us all to right ruin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Roll in the coagulate burden then, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the Piano Grand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Delight the last name, my own, rhymes</div><div style="margin:10px 0">with 'wood' almost, a nuance in a minor</div><div style="margin:10px 0">key, that from which the Instrument is made.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And my little chair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Little chair. Hold me, pray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Let there be, crouched again, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">one last time, play and play.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Let knees press close to chest near, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">knees there do pray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>All of me is Agency become.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Music there is in fingers latency, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">theirs deserve all waking praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535586" data-title="Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament de Warren Falcon" data-description="Here the chipped ivory is only cloud. The Instrument, too very old, is Archetype. Strings of gold do not a music make. A lyre presses sterilely into where once was crotch. Crotchless, music is useless here. So am I. No one listens. The o..."></div> </div> </div>

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