Morning of Music


22

Morning of Music

I tread on goblets of the dawn
With music two hundred years old
Chopin, Liszt, Schumann
We were all composers and critics
No, we lived for performance

For the gratitude of grass, earth and sky
For the pursuit of the
Impossible, and how silence
Drags twilight to the core
That’s beauty, distant and pure
The milky way where we live
Yearning always for something more
Moring is splendid
Like a woman at twenty

She doesn’t know how beautiful she is
Until four o’clock on a Saturday
I tread on stars blown to dust
With civilizations gone extinct
Everything truly is temporary.