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.