Beethoven; A poem by Yelena

Piano’s essence is a molten sacrifice

defaced with the basswood timbre,

black spring consuming white winter

in its most terrible and bright moment –

The massacre of any distraught flare
at the core of forte’s solemn mass
clings closer to a porcelain heart
than dove’s devout eyes sky-fixed.

Basic are lowest octaves, sotto voce,
when the hammer stirs a frail string
and tremulous ivory sighs in chords
to reshape even the sheltering high –

For a vibrating wire and faint ruins
that slam on the cartesian world
the keys fever cadence after cadence,
shard after shard – tempered hectic.

C minor-edged on a nowhere’s pyre
the bleeding note speaks obsidian,
emotion as a dim archaic shimmer –
and the galaxy’s glazed bare, wingless.

If you kiss this fractured reverence
while adagio turns presto agitato,
toss feathers into a perfect catastrophe,
bless it with your abysmal geometry

you can fly