Last night Bach held his hand to me through
the hum and vibrations of a weeping cello.
He'd been in Leipzig too long
he was sad, angry and tired.
I had nothing to offer except the pathetic look
on my face. He turned from me, shaking his head.
He bent over and sat quietly for hours.
He then played something in the air;
I was too ignorant to see his images.
when I came back years and years later
I found the sound of lament
expressed in something beyond heaven's melodies.