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MAHLER


A seesaw bridge between the centuries,

the world embraced his lesser arts

but frowned on the children of his soul,

and yet the sounds persist.

Morning bells awaken souls to pastoral thoughts,

a babbling brook meanders down an alpine slope,

thundering crescendos of a titan's cries

reside as equals beside the simple ditty

the hurdy gurdy grinds,

a peasant landler with festering angst.

Now the siren's voice of Alma, seductive muse

who exudes the sultry perfume of desire

while in the inner ear

Doctor Freud whispers "mother love."

A Jew in exile who exults the Christian god

now cradles a dead child in his arms

and sings it mournful lullabies.

At last the music of his liebestod,

not the Celtic maiden's febrile tears,

but a quiet sigh of resignation.

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