Date: 12 January 2007 08:30:09
"For he does not wish that men should love him more than anything
Because he died; he only wishes they would hear him sing."
We threw the book at him. It bounced. Recoiling,
he laid down an elastic law pronounced
with parabolic arcs across the skies
of passing worlds. He sang a song of loss,
left quotes for his biography, and perished
for disturbing standard orthography.
At once our sects seized his song-book. Lacking voices
we could only stutter, could only look
at golden notes on silver staves, imagine tunes
whilst grim, ponderous essays etched on graves
set rubrics for the proper way to perform
the canon and appointed who could play.
Our music fills us with regret. Unconducted,
on clumsy thumbs, we stumble. We forget.